


One Stop Collision Course

by spnblargh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Community: deancasbigbang, M/M, Plotty, Reworked Mythology, Suspense, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 20:35:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2665508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnblargh/pseuds/spnblargh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak is a wannabe writer working at the local library. When Dean Winchester stops by to do research for some sort of job, he and Castiel hit it off incredibly well. In the coming days, however, Castiel comes face to face with a series of strange occurrences, some of which threaten his very life. It becomes clear that there’s more to Dean’s job than what he lets on, and Castiel’s destined for something greater than he can possibly imagine. </p><p>Dean/Cas Big Bang 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> I owe gratitude to quite a lot of people.
> 
> To [moonliteknight](http://moonliteknight.livejournal.com/) \- thank you so much for your artwork! It's such a pleasure seeing my writing transformed into art. The artwork can be viewed [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2665793)!  
> To dumbasses-in-love & consultingcas - my betas who came to my aid about 3 days before this thing was due. You guys are fantastic. Thank you!  
> To coolification & thecaptainsoiree - your support and cheerleading really helped push me to get this thing done on time. Thank you so, so much!
> 
> Without further ado, please enjoy the fic!

 

* * *

 

  

 

* * *

 

Since moving to the city, Castiel's heard the sound of sirens more frequently. Early in the morning, late at night, all hours of the day. It's constant. Perhaps it's simply a matter of more people in one place; more potential for injury. Crime's more commonplace here, too, guns on hand to shoot people rather than ducks or rabbits. An ambulance is an odd thing to hear when he's safe in bed, tucked beneath the second-hand blanket he bought from St. Vincent's. _Maybe someone's dead_ , he wonders each night, and curls up tighter as the sound fades into the distance.

It's just one of those things he's had to get used to, after packing up his life and hitchhiking his way to the big city. Not to mention the omnipresent stink of pollution; the thousands of shoulders that ram into his own when he's trying to get to work during peak hour; or the homeless people dotting the streets as frequently as McDonald's outlets.

It's all very different. Sometimes, good-different. Other times...

The shrieking of another siren is what grabs Castiel's attention. Right now, he's at work, hunched over a mountain of damaged books. He's been meticulously processing each one for several hours now ― inspect it, tape it, put it away ― so he seizes the opportunity to be distracted. The main road is just beyond the borders of the parking lot, giving him a clear view to the two police cars that drive past. Nose nearly pressed against the glass, he watches the cars disappear beyond his field of vision, a frown etching deeper into his brow as the seconds tick by.

Sirens always make him pause, which is ridiculous considering how often he hears them. Perhaps it's the writer in him that causes it. His imagination constantly jumps to places it really shouldn’t venture to.

The sound triggers something in him, like he needs to take the time to reflect on this precious life he leads, one of good health and vague happiness. Work is seldom enjoyable and frequently tedious, but he could have been in a car accident tonight, or a clot could have gotten stuck in his brain. Or, he snorts, he could have been a sacrifice in some kind of messed up Satanic ritual. You know, the usual.

He shakes himself, worn out from his existential crisis already. There's less than two hours left until closing time, and those horrendously handled books aren't going to fix themselves. His boss will give him the stink eye tomorrow if he can't get this pile finished off and put away by the end of the night. Maybe if Castiel didn't spend so much time scrawling half-formulated plots and character profiles and arbitrary sentences on blank receipt paper then he'd get more work done. Then again, he earns minimum wage, and aren't these the kind of menial jobs meant to foster creativity? Castiel's not sure anymore. His college professors had always droned on about the most pretentious bullshit.

No one comes in on a Friday night. Usually their patrons head off around three pm, and Castiel's left to his own devices for the remaining three hours. It's peaceful, if not boring (and a little bit lonely). Which is why, at a four-thirty, he's surprised when a man marches through the automated doors, letting in a gust of Autumn wind.

He's an aggressive-looking man. Strong jaw, muscular, blonde-brown hair, and dressed in a dark leather jacket and well-worn jeans. His hair's cut like he's fresh out of the military, and an inky tattoo creeps out from beneath his collar and curls just beneath his ear. It's a pure black tattoo, the shape reminding him of some sort of tentacle. Perhaps the man was in the Navy or something. Does the US offer naval support against giant squids? If they don't, that seems like a pretty big oversight.

The polite smile the man shoots his way doesn't ease Castiel's concerns in the slightest. He doesn't try to judge based on appearances but the man doesn't seem particularly friendly, and he's had his fair share of instigations with thugs lurking around his apartment block. They're always a variation of jackets and combat boots and beards and tattoos, so Castiel puts his guard up and subtly creeps into the back room to check that their surveillance cameras are switched on.

One of the cameras has a perfect view of the man pulling out thick texts from the Local History section, so Castiel watches him for a moment, half-expecting the man to shove a book under his jacket or something. He doesn't, however, instead combing over the books for several minutes before taking a seat at one of the empty tables. Seems innocent enough.

Castiel goes back to the front, and since he can keep an eye on the man from his spot safely tucked behind half a metre of desk, he continues to tape up book spines. At this stage, the man doesn't appear to be a threat, just like any other bookworm. It's a bit of a jarring image, really. Unexpected, yes, but definitely a relief.

The man remains focused for the rest of the night, not sparing a glance for Castiel who goes back and forth between the counter and the floor. Eventually, when closing time draws near, Castiel becomes nervous. He's really not sure how kindly this man will take to being ushered out, but it's now ten to six and he'd like to get home in time for his home improvement reruns. He squares his shoulders, approaches the man, and takes a deep breath.

"Excuse me, sir," Castiel says, keeping a nice few feet between them. "We're about to close. You'll have to pack up."

"Ah, yeah, of course," he says, immediately getting to his feet. He doesn't seem too happy about it but he's complying, at least.

Castiel returns to the front desk and the man follows, carrying four books of arguably the dullest non-fiction amongst their entire collection. "Can I borrow these?"

"Certainly. Do you have a library card?"

"Sorry, uh, no," the man replies, which is the answer that Castiel was expecting. "Am I able to set one up? Sorry, not trying to keep you from getting home..."

"It's fine," Castiel waves him off. "It won't take long."

"Oh, but I don't live around here. I ain't local. I'm just visiting here for a few days." Castiel expected that, too. The man definitely sounds like he's from the South, judging from the Kansas boy twang he's got going on.

Castiel braces himself. "Unfortunately, we don't lend our books to people from out of town. You're free to use our resources on site, but...we only provide library cards to locals." He makes himself seem as apologetic as possible while simultaneously lifting his chin, refusing to appear small in front of such an intimidating man. "I'm sorry, sir."

The man seems to deflate, stress lines marring his forehead. He turns away, scrubbing a hand down his chin, deliberating. "That's the rule, huh?"

"Unfortunately, yes. My apologies."

Nodding, the man exhales. "Yeah, okay, that makes sense. Damn it," he mutters, pulling out his mobile. "Sammy ain't gonna be happy. You're open over the weekend, yeah?"

"Yes, we are. From ten ‘til five tomorrow."

"Okay, great. Guess I'll have to come in tomorrow morning." He pockets the phone and turns back to the small number of books he's collected on the desk, his gaze troubled. "Alright. Yeah. Hey, you want me to put these back for you?" he offers, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

It's in that moment that Castiel notices a great number of things all at once: 1) there's a tattoo on the back of his hand of a golden butterfly, positioned as if it's just planted a little kiss on his knuckle; 2) there's a speck of barbecue sauce on the white shirt poking out from beneath his leather jacket, which is somewhat gross but also endearing; and 3) there are laugh lines around his mouth to counteract the deep set of marks on his brow, and Castiel feels that a man who laughs that much can't be all bad, especially if he's generous enough to do part of Castiel's job for him.

There's a softness in his gaze, too, now that he thinks about it. Something kind rather than malicious. It's a strange thing to see when you take it all in: the biker gang attire contrasted with the small flecks of gold in those green eyes of his.

"Tell you what," Castiel says, "if you're coming in tomorrow, I can just put these aside for you." He doesn't admit that it's against the rules, that his boss will grumble at him in the morning when he sees evidence of Castiel's obsession with going the extra mile for their patrons. "I'm working in the morning so I'll know not to put them away."

The man's whole face lights up. He has quite a handsome face, actually - Castiel hadn't realised until now. "Seriously? That would be awesome!"

Cas plucks one of the receipts he'd been scribbling on, quickly turning it over before the man can get a glimpse of its contents. "What's your name?"

"Dean." The name suits him, he thinks, pressing the letters into the paper.

"Alright, Dean," he says, slipping paper between the pages of one of the books, ensuring that the name pokes out clearly. "I suppose I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Bright and early," Dean grins, offering him a wave. That smile makes Castiel's insides backflip. "Have a good night, man."

"You too," he replies, staring after him, eyes tracing the broad line of his shoulders.

He contemplates Dean's character as he's walking home. He calls him a 'character' because there's something about him that fascinates Castiel. It's almost like he walked out of a novel - the jaded ex-Marine with PTSD who takes solace in the library as a coping mechanism, perhaps? Or maybe a tattoo artist with a rebellious streak who still likes to curl up at night with a good book and a cup of tea.

Either way, there's something appealing about a man like that - the rough edges with a soft centre.

Castiel smiles to himself he unlocks the front door. His apartment may be the same as it always is - small, dark and remarkably cold - but it bothers him a little less than usual. It's funny how a complete stranger can put an extra skip in your step.  
The moment he's inside he picks up his laptop, still lying on the couch from last night. Settling in for the night, he opens up the document he's been obsessing over for the past few weeks. There's a solid ten thousand words written so far, but _maybe_ he can work a new character in there.

\---

His coffee is extra strong this morning, courtesy of his favourite coffee shop, Othello's. A double shot of caffeine is the only thing that's going to get him through the day. When will he learn to not be such a night owl? Productivity may come to him at the heights of sleep deprivation, but do these nights always have to be followed up with morning shifts? Hopefully someday he'll approach adulthood with a rational mindset, but his thirties are drawing closer each year and he still hasn't gotten the hang of it.

The morning is chilly, his eyes sting, and the only time he's smiled today is when he'd passed the house on the corner of Bright and Clay St, lingering for a minute or two to pat Theo, a rather enthusiastic spotty Great Dane. Even when he's running late, he has to accommodate Theo. Wide, dark puppy eyes are incredibly persuasive.  
As expected, his boss gives him an unimpressed look when Castiel arrives. Marv Metatron (Which sounds like a good name for a supervillain loves rules, and breaking one is akin to an act of treason. Considering that the rules just so happen to be the ones that Metatron's put into place, he's virtually incapable of breaking them while Castiel flounders every time he toes even slightly over the line.

"What are these?" Metatron gestures to Dean's books, an eyebrow raised expectantly.

"We aren't allowed to lend books to people from out of town," Castiel rushes to say. "And he said he was coming in today, so I figured it wouldn't hurt to just―"

"To just bend the rules to your liking?" Metatron huffs. "I'm getting tired of lecturing you, Castiel."

"Right," Castiel nods. "My apologies."

"I don't want any upset customers so I'll let you keep these books aside. This time only." He jabs a finger at Castiel's chest. "After that, docking your pay. After that, you're out. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Castiel says, his dignity curling up into a tiny, depressing hole in his gut. "It won't happen again."

"It better not!" Metatron warns before heading into his office, an arrogant swagger in his steps. Castiel burns a glare into his back before turning away.

Metatron's one of those crazy controlling bosses, to the extent that he comes to work even when it's supposed to be his day off. Every weekend he comes in for the first hour or two of opening, just to check that everything's in order, i.e. Castiel hasn't fucked something up. It's an insult to Castiel's work ethic, quite honestly. Castiel may bend the rules slightly on occasion, but it's always to please their customers, never for his own personal gain.

Unfortunately, Metatron is a grade-A bastard. He'll never acknowledge Castiel's hard work but hell _yes_ will he point out every tiny little indiscretion.

With a heavy sigh, Castiel goes about his opening routine: switch on the computer, open the blinds, turn on the lights, unlock the entrance, and try to avoid throwing a tantrum.

True to his word, Dean shows up right on ten o'clock. His eyes are a tad bloodshot and his clothes look a little ruffled, but he makes an effort to smile when Castiel greets him at the front desk.

"Right on time, Dean," Castiel remarks, pushing the books towards him.

Dean grins. "I'm a man of my word." He eyes up Castiel's name badge, then glances up again. "You're pretty awesome, Cas. Thanks," he says, and as he's picking up the books, he winks.  
Castiel freezes, surprised, but Dean's already swept up his books and returned to the table he'd been sitting at last night.

Was that a flirtation? No, surely not. Castiel may be well and truly an adult, but he's not well experienced in the world of dating. At the timid age of seven he'd gotten 'married' to a young girl whose name escapes him now. She attended the same school as him and had the most fiery red hair he'd ever seen. She'd enforced a strict _no kissing_ rule, and while they held hands a couple of times, their relationship barely changed after their wedding celebrated down by the sandpit.

That's pretty much where his experience ends. There'd been moments, looking back, when he could have experimented with some of his college classmates: men, women, and an enigmatic individual named Kym who went by gender neutral pronouns. At the time, however, he'd been completely oblivious to any and all of their advances. He's always been a bit clueless like that.

People just...puzzle him. Castiel has always struggled to catch on to the subtleties of gesture or expression. He's always found it difficult to explain _feelings_ in his writing, too. And now, whether Dean's wink was innocent or not, Castiel's brain has seemingly fried. He presses one of his cold hands to his cheeks, trying to ease the growing flush.

A wink can mean lots of things. He's been winked at before, and he'd been as confused then as he is now. Although, Castiel hasn't really reacted like this before. Which begs the question… why?  
Is he attracted to Dean? Possibly. The idea is worth looking into, anyway.

Thoughtful, Castiel returns to his work.

Dean spends almost the entire day in the library. Castiel putters back and forth between the counter and the rest of the floor, shelving books and processing yesterday's stock. There's a steady flow of patrons coming in today like there usually is on a weekend. A few of their regulars greet him, including the recently widowed Macey (addicted to science fiction), as well as the introverted teenager Trixie (currently reading the Eragon series). At 11 o'clock the freckled young boy and his exasperated mother arrive (borrows the same Spider-Man books every single week) to check out another book with the Green Goblin on the cover.

Castiel always makes an effort to get to know their patrons, and so once Metatron takes his leave around 2 o'clock, Castiel approaches Dean's table with the intention of shelving some returns, and perhaps learn a little more about him.

With each book he puts away, he chances a glance in Dean's direction. He's hunched over the desk, scrawling something in a small notebook with the same boring material from yesterday laid out before him. Castiel's not sure of the book's title, but he spots the word _Cemetery_ at the beginning of the most recent chapter. Interesting.

Castiel frowns to himself, puts another two books away, and then looks over at Dean once more. Initially he wanted to get a look at the book's cover, but he quickly becomes distracted by the colourful, looping artwork that's twisting patterns across Dean's exposed skin. The purple tentacles around his ear coil all the way down his neck and disappear from view, and Castiel finds himself wondering how far down his body they go. Dean's sleeves are rolled up so Castiel can see the tattoos snaking across his forearms, including a green-skinned mermaid, thorny vines that coil from wrist to elbow, and that lovely little butterfly on his knuckle, a brilliant shade of yellow.

"Like what you see?"

With a jolt, Castiel snaps himself out of it, nearly dropping the Atlas he'd been holding. Dean's watching him flail, an amused smirk on his face. As gracefully as possible, Cas places the Atlas onto its shelf before turning to Dean, hoping his cheeks aren't flushed. "I'm sorry?"

Dean grins. "You've been gawking at me for a couple of minutes now, dude. Obviously you must see something you like."

"Yes," Castiel says. Dean's eyebrows shoot up, so Castiel hastily amends, "Your tattoos, they're--they're very beautiful. I was...captivated."

"Yeah?" Dean smiles fondly down at his arms. "Thanks. You got any yourself?"

Castiel shakes his head. "Not yet."

"Yet?" Dean grins again. "Sounds promising. What're you thinking of getting?"

Castiel considers his question for a moment, before finally answering, "I think I'd like a large set of angel wings on my back."

Dean groans. "Oh c'mon, dude. Everyone and their mother gets _that_ tattoo."

"Maybe so," Castiel says defensively. "It would be important to me, though. More than just aesthetics."

"Well, that's all that really matters, I guess." Dean's gaze flits up and down Castiel's body. "Plus, you know, even I can admit that you'd look pretty badass."

A surprised laugh erupts from Castiel's lips. "Thank you. That's reassuring."

With mirth in his eyes, Dean drops his pen on the table and closes the book he'd been reading. The title reads, _A Night's Tale: Meteor Showers of the 80s._

"So, you're a librarian five days a week. What else do you do?"

"Six days a week, usually," Castiel corrects, somewhat bitterly, then shrugs. "Not much. I read, I write. I sleep a lot."

Dean chuckles. "Sleeping, huh? If only I had the luxury."

Castiel frowns. "I take it that you're a busy man?"

"Something like that," he replies, waving a hand dismissively. "If a time comes when I get more than four hours, I'd call that a good night."

Setting his remaining books aside -- job completely forgotten -- Castiel takes the seat across from Dean. "That doesn't sound like a healthy habit."

"Sometimes sacrifices gotta be made for the job," Dean says with a shrug. "Which I'm sure you're pretty well familiar with by now."

"What do you mean by that?" Castiel's frown deepens.

"Well, you know..." He jerks a thumb in the direction of Metatron's office, where it's tucked away behind the counter. "You gotta deal with that greaseball you call a boss on a regular basis. Bet you'd like nothing more than to knock him flat on his ass."

Castiel smiles wryly, directing his gaze to his hands where they rest in his lap. "Metatron is a perfectly fine boss."

"Oh, please," Dean snorts. "I saw him prowling around your counter all morning, watching you, telling you off over, I dunno, one random ass book slightly askew." Dean quirks a brow at him. "I saw you roll your eyes so many times I thought you'd burst a blood vessel. The guy's a total dickwad."

" _Dean_ ," Castiel protests, but he can't wipe the growing smile off his face.

"Admit it," Dean challenges, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair. His chest is stretched out, tugging at his shirt, revealing a sliver of smooth, warm skin at the hem. There's a stripe of blue and green inked there, too. "You wanna wipe that slimey smile off greaseball's face."

"I admit to nothing," Castiel says quietly. "You're assuming me to be a violent man."

"Dude, my whole life is a series of shitty jobs. Trust me, anyone who's _not_ a violent man _becomes_ one if they gotta put up with a boss like that."  
Castiel glances away, staring at a random spot by the library's entrance. "You'll get me in trouble if you keep talking like that."

"He left already, didn't he? Don't tell me he's such a control freak he's got the place wiretapped, too."

"I wouldn't put it past him," Castiel sighs. That earns him a laugh, and Castiel's chest swells with warmth.

The Metatron-bashing peters off, and Castiel searches for a new topic. He seeks out the book in front of Dean. "You're interested in meteorology, then?"

"Eh, sorta." Dean picks up the book, appraising it. "Material's pretty dry. I'm checking out the meteor showers of '87. Know anything about them?"

Back in 1987, there'd been a number of meteors that crashed into the earth, spread out across each continent. This city was impacted but Castiel's hometown was one of the many that were significantly decimated - there are still deep craters throughout the town's iconic farmlands.

The meteor shower had come seemingly out of nowhere, just raining down from the clouds and bringing about massive destruction. Strangely enough, despite how spread out the meteors were across the globe, each crater was in close proximity to a town or city. None of the meteors landed in oceans or barren deserts, hence the high casualty rate. In fact, the worldwide consistency led to a number of wild theories started cropping up: why wasn't anyone able to detect the meteor shower earlier? What caused it? Why would a meteor shower be magnetised to manmade infrastructure? It was flat out bizarre.

That's as far as Castiel knows, which is really the bare bones of the subject, so he shakes his head. "Not much at all, I'm afraid." He cocks an eyebrow. "Are you one of those conspiracy theorists?"

"Conspiracy? You mean how the meteors apparently _unearthed the dead_ and now they walk among us?" Dean grins. "Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. What about you?"

Castiel shrugs. "I haven't given it much thought. I know very little on the subject, as I said. It happened two months before I was born, so."

"Before you were born? So that would make you...twenty-seven?" Castiel nods. Dean lifts his eyebrows up and down, smirking. "I'm twenty-six. Guess that makes you a cougar."  
Castiel stares at him, contemplating his smug expression. "A cougar?"

Dean laughs, rolling his eyes. "You're older than me and you've been perving on me all day. Do I really need to spell it out?"

Castiel flushes. "I haven't been _perving_."

"Yeah, you kinda have," Dean says, all smooth and confident. "You think you might be coy, but you're about as subtle as a cow on a trampoline."

"Wh―why would a cow be on a trampoline?"

Dean barks out a laugh, which earns a few reproachful stares from the other patrons. "Cas, ask me for my number or somethin'. The tension's killing me."

"Oh!" Castiel freezes, taken aback. "Oh, right."

Yes, he supposes he did notice the tension, too. And he _did_ spend quite a long time mapping out the muscles in Dean's forearms. And staring openly at the exposed part of Dean's belly. That isn't particularly subtle behaviour, but, well, Castiel's still fairly new to this. It was only a handful of hours ago that he was even entertaining the idea that he might be attracted to him.

"Yes, I―right." Castiel takes a breath, flustered. "I apologise."

" _Apologise?_ " Dean laughs again. Someone nearby shushes him, but their request goes ignored. "Dude, your game is terrible," he says, but he's snatching up his pen and tearing off a strip of paper from his notebook. "Fortunately, I'm a nice guy, so I'll help you out."

Next thing he knows, Castiel's holding a piece of paper with Dean's name and phone number. Castiel stares at it, feeling his chest resonate with each quickening beat of his heart. "Thank you, Dean."

"Don't thank me, man. Just promise me you'll give me a call at some point, yeah?"

"Y-yes. Definitely." Castiel beams at him. He takes a breath, decides to _go for it_ , gearing up to ask Dean whether he might be interested in going for lunch or coffee once he gets off his shift―

But, at that precise moment, Dean's phone starts buzzing. "Hold on, I gotta take this." He gets to his feet, tugging the phone out of his pocket as he heads outside. "Sam? You got something for me?"

Castiel tries not to let himself deflate too much. Yes, navigating the world of socialising and dating are daunting tasks for him, but Dean will return and then maybe Castiel could have another go. He hasn't really been in this kind of situation before; he's never really asked anybody anything to do with coffee or dinner. Castiel curses this _Sam_ and his poor timing. He'd been mere _seconds_ from spitting the words out.

Outside, Dean's pacing back and forth, brow furrowed. It occurs to Castiel that _hey, he's not getting paid to sit around and stare_ , so he returns to his work. None of the patrons seem to be in urgent need of him, so Castiel finishes his book returns, and then goes back to the front counter to follow up orders.

It's becoming increasingly more difficult to concentrate, what with Dean on the edge of his peripheries. He's distracted further by a whirling siren sailing past the library, and Castiel stands up to take a look. The police car is out of his sights from one blink to the next, and a minute later there's another siren screeching by, this time originating from an ambulance. He's saved from any potential brooding when Dean comes back inside, pocketing his phone.

Unfortunately, there's an apologetic look on his face. "Hey, Cas. Sorry, but I gotta get going. It's pretty urgent, uh..." He rakes a palm across his face. "My brother needs me for something. Job-related, you know."

He tries not to show it, but Castiel's tremendously disappointed. "It's okay. I should be getting back to work, too."

"Yeah, 'course. I'll put my books back for you."

Castiel waves him off. "Don't worry about it. I'm more than happy to take care of it."

"You sure? You're awesome, Cas. I ever tell you that?"

"This morning, actually," Castiel says, smiling. "Go on. Your brother's waiting."

"Yeah, I better go. I'll see you around." Dean darts back to the table, snatches up his notebook and pen, and sweeps back to Castiel's counter. He lowers his voice, "And don't be afraid to give me a call, yeah?"

Castiel nods. "I won't."

Dean's lips quirk. "See ya later."

He winks, and _that_ is most definitely a flirtation.


	2. Part II

When he gets back to his apartment, Castiel feels run off his feet. His heels are aching and there's a sharp pain in his shoulder from heaving boxes back and forth. He'd had to stay back an extra thirty minutes, too, because of an elderly woman who didn't quite understand that the library was closing up. Castiel is fairly certain she has some kind of dementia, so he understands it's not her fault. He's grumpy, however, because coming home later means nothing for his bank account. Metatron doesn't believe in paying past closing time.

What's worse, though, is that Castiel's had every opportunity to doubt himself since the moment Dean left the library. Dean is kind, funny, and his interest in Castiel makes no sense whatsoever. Dean's charming while Castiel is awkward and a terrible flirt, and while he considers himself to be fairly good-looking, Dean is outright _gorgeous_. It hadn't registered upon their first meeting just how attractive Dean is, but seeing him up close this afternoon has basically sent his brain into overload.

Why would Dean show any interest in a socially-stunted bookworm? Perhaps giving out his number was out of pity rather than genuine interest. Perhaps it's not even a real number. The number at least has the correct amount of digits, but Castiel's worked himself into such a nervous state that he can't even _consider_ giving Dean a call. Sure, it might actually be the right number, but he could also be answered by a complete stranger. If some crotchery old man or woman, then Castiel might actually be so disappointed he wouldn't be able to go to work for a few days.

He _does_ input Dean's number into his phone, at least, but he doesn't contact him. Even if Dean answered, maybe it would be too soon. Is there some kind of waiting period involved with calling someone? Is less than twenty-four hours too soon? Would he be deemed 'creepy'? Castiel's fairly sure there are rules about this. Maybe he should scan Google for some kind of answer.

In the end, however, he's too tired for research. His brain's all muddled up and he's got work again tomorrow, so he can figure it out later.

For the most part, Castiel sleeps that night. He does wake up around three, squinting blearily at his alarm clock and sighing with relief when he sees the time. Otherwise, he sleeps soundly, although he still feels exhausted when his alarm finally goes off.

The morning is particularly chilly today, so Castiel wraps himself in his favourite trench coat before locking up. It's about two sizes too big for him and one of the buttons has been torn off, but it's a perfect shield against the cold. His cheeks are tinged pink by the time he gets to the library, but the coat's so effective he has a bit of a sweat going. He douses himself in a small amount of cologne before opening up the library. He brought a small bottle of the stuff today, just in case, well. In case Dean showed up. He shakes his head at himself. How pathetic can he be, really?

It's business as usual. Patrons trickle in, the heater is on but groaning loudly, and around lunchtime Castiel unpacks the stepladder so he can change one of the light bulbs that have been blinking incessantly for the past few weeks. Trixie, who's midway through _Eldest_ , smiles gratefully when the light is finally fixed.

Another series of sirens go off during the day. It humbles him, watching the police cars zoom past. Metatron shows up not long afterwards, and Castiel amuses himself with the idea that his charming boss went on a killing spree before coming to work. It would explain the wide smile on his smug face, at least.

Metatron flicks Castiel behind the ear. " _Focus_ , Castiel. The daydreaming has got to stop."

Castiel sighs, "Yes, sir."

Three o'clock comes round, Metatron's already gone back home again, and Dean's nowhere to be seen. Castiel had hoped that he'd come in again, maybe ask Castiel out himself to save him the trouble of over-thinking the situation any further.

At one point he thinks he sees him but it's someone else, a man donned in a Dean-esque leather jacket. He's standing outside, leaning against a lamp post. They lock eyes for a moment, but Castiel quickly breaks contact, re-focusing on the computer.

Time keeps ticking and most people have already left by four-thirty. Castiel starts his closing routine, tidying up and giving the entrance a vacuum. He glances up, thinks it's Dean _again_ , but it's the same man as before. He's staring right at Castiel, unblinking. Castiel quickly looks away. How long has been standing out there now? An hour? Two?

At ten to five, Castiel sees the man still watching him from outside, and Castiel's gone from uncomfortable to mildly afraid. Is the man waiting for Castiel to lock up or something? Is he about to get mugged?

Five minutes to, however, Castiel looks outside and finds the man is gone. He hopes that means good things, as opposed to hiding-behind-a-tree-ready-to-jump-him.

As a precaution, Castiel takes out his pocket knife from his backpack and slips it into his coat. He switches off the lights and locks the library, and when he turns around ― despite the mini-heart attack he has initially ― he is greeted by someone delightfully unexpected.

Dean's standing there, smiling sheepishly. "Hey there. Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

"Hello, Dean." Castiel exhales, relaxing immediately. "It's fine, I was just...you surprised me." He waves a hand at the doors. "I'm afraid I've already locked up."

"I know. I can see that." Dean takes a couple of steps closer. He's wearing a collared shirt this time, and his jeans are dark and devoid of any holes. "I'm not here for research, Cas."

Castiel frowns. "No? So, then―" Dean waggles his eyebrows and Castiel is so surprised he nearly falls over. "Oh. _Oh._ You're here for me, then?"

Dean chuckles. "C'mon, you dork. I scored a night off. There's a burger joint not far from here and I'm starvin'. You in?"

" _Yes!_ " he exclaims, then mentally kicks himself. He tries to curb his excitement somewhat, then tries again, "I, um, yes. Yes. That would be nice."

Dean grins, and little crinkles form around his eyes. "Alright then. Shall we?"

They set off down the street, Dean the perfect picture of calm and collected while Castiel's mind is shooting off fireworks inside his skull. His skin feels like it's alight, buzzing, and he's positive that he's going to screw this up somehow. Discreetly, he wipes his sweaty hands on his coat.

Next thing he knows, they're at a pub simply called _Joe's_ and Dean's gone to the bar to order drinks. He returns with two beers and two menus, setting each on the table. Immediately, Castiel snatches up his drink, taking a deep gulp.

"Easy there, tiger," Dean says once Castiel sets his now half empty drink down. "Didn't really think of you as a big drinker."

"I'm not, really." Castiel takes a deep breath, hesitating. "I'm just...nervous, that's all."

"You got no reason to be," Dean says with a shrug.

"Don't I?" Castiel asks, and he wants to hit himself. "Sorry."

"Don't be."

Beneath the table, Castiel can feel Dean brushing their knees together. It may be a subtle movement, but moments later, Castiel releases a long exhale.

Dean is kind, and Castiel knows that a man like Dean could probably take anyone in this pub home with him if he wanted to. For reasons that Castiel doesn't quite understand, Dean's chosen _him_ for company this evening, so there's no point second guessing himself all night. He must see something appealing in Castiel, so perhaps the best way to not screw this up is to relax and actually enjoy himself.

He takes several deep breaths, meets Dean's gentle gaze, and then he finds himself smiling. "I'm alright," he says, then picks up the menu. "It has been _months_ since I've had a good cheeseburger."

"Pubs do 'em best," Dean says, and everything suddenly becomes much easier.

They chat, they drink, they eat some truly _delicious_ cheeseburgers and share a huge stack of fries. Even the ketchup is divine, and Dean manages to get several drops of it on his shirt. The man's an enthusiastic eater; Castiel finds it oddly charming.

The jukebox starts up and Metallica comes on, and that sends Dean into a twenty minute spiel about Metallica and all of the other bands he grew up on. Castiel knows most of the bands by name but couldn't tell you any of their songs. Dean acts disgusted, then insists that he'll have to educate him some time. Castiel practically glows at the suggestion.

Dean's a far better conversationalist than Castiel. He’s always struggled to find decent topics to talk about in everyday conversation, but Dean can guide the discussion from music to cars to TV shows almost effortlessly. Honestly, Castiel has always preferred to take on more of a listening role, so he and Dean seem to complement each other quite nicely.

Eventually, there's a lull in the conversation. Dean mops up ketchup with his burger bun and Castiel chews his lip, thoughtful.

"Can I ask about your tattoos?"

Once their meals had been brought out, Dean had rolled up his sleeves before digging in, exposing his inked forearms. He'd tried to control himself but Castiel's attention always snaps back to those tattoos, fascinated by the interlocking designs and colours.

"Sure," Dean says between mouthfuls. "What do you wanna know?"

"Do they symbolise something to you?" Castiel asks, tilting his head to the side. "The mermaid, the wolf...are they just for aesthetics, or...?"

Dean doesn't answer right away, chewing slowly, his gaze distant. For a moment, Castiel wonders if it's too personal a question, but then Dean swallows his food and extends his arm. "I'm a massive myth and legend nerd. Mermaids?" He points to the one on his upper arm, green-skinned with flaming red hair. "Totally real. This wolf? Well, you can't really see it 'cause it's up on my shoulder, but there's a creepy looking dude up there as well. Symbolises a werewolf, which, in my opinion? Totally real."

Castiel laughs. "You believe in mythical creatures?"

"Damn right," Dean says, leaning back in his seat. "I got a vampire on my leg, a wraith on my ankle, a banshee on my other leg, uh..." He frowns. "I got a incubus and succubus in some, uh, appropriately suggestive places." He smirks, and Castiel rolls his eyes, grinning.

"The vines?" Castiel says, pointing to his arms.

"Venomous tentacula."

"What, from Harry Potter?"

"Hell yeah from Harry Potter," Dean says, puffing out his chest. "One hundred percent real."

Castiel shakes his head, chuckling. "What else do you have?"

Frowning thoughtfully, Dean sticks out his fingers, counting them off. "Ghost, hellhound, reaper, djinn ― that's kinda like a genie ― uhh, let me think...There's a woman in white on my calf, and I've got a dragon on me somewhere. On my back, maybe?" Dean frowns deeper. "Or maybe it was on my ass..."

Covering his face with his hands, Castiel turns red. He smiles into his palms. "You have a dragon on your butt?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I do. It's either a dragon or an okami, I can't remember which one." Through his fingers, Castiel can see Dean's shit-eating grin. "Wanna see it?"

It takes several minutes for Castiel to stop laughing, his cheeks and stomach starting to ache after a while. As sad as it is, Castiel's pretty sure he hasn't laughed like this in a long time. Maybe, if he's _really_ lucky, Dean'll stick around long enough to make up for these past few years of perpetual scowling.

It’s a Sunday night, and eventually it becomes so busy that they can barely hear each other over all the noise. Dean leaves money on the counter and Castiel covers the tip, then they're outside and breathing in the cool air.

"Want me to give you a ride home?" Dean says, pulling out his car keys.

"It's not very far. I usually walk."

"I can walk you home, then."

They make their way down the street. The sun has well and truly set so it's dark and incredibly cold, but he's got his coat and the alcohol in his system to keep him warm. Dean's walking quite close to him, too, their elbows occasionally bumping together. The extra body heat is nice.

A couple of minutes in, the elbow bumps become more frequent. Then Dean withdraws his hands from his pockets and Castiel can feel his hand brushing against Castiel's hip. Castiel swings his arm so that their hands can brush against one another, fingers catching.

They round a corner and then Dean's closer, his arm slipping around Castiel's waist. Castiel's body feels significantly hotter now, his breath coming out in small puffs of white mist. Dean is warm and pleasant against him, so close that he can hear his breathing.

He's not sure who initiates it, but they start turning into each other, coming to a stop halfway up the street. They pause, and Castiel can practically taste Dean, his scent strong at this proximity. It's a pleasant musk, a combination of beer, leather, and something earthy and sweet.

Castiel's then being gently guided back towards the brick wall of an alleyway, Dean closing in. Their bodies slot together, Dean's arms bracketing Castiel's head. He leans in, lips ghosting over Castiel's own, and he wants so desperately to kiss him but there's a quirk in Dean's lips, teasing. He wants to speak, tell him _please_ , don't torture him, but his mouth's too dry.

He licks his lips. Dean glances down, pupils growing wider, and then their mouths meet and Castiel's entire body goes lax. Any and all stress or anxiety completely flee his mind, allowing something comforting to settle in its place.

Dean pulls back, huffing a breath before diving back in, nipping at his bottom lip. Castiel tries to follow his lead, little nips and sucks, but Dean's far more experienced than he is, and Castiel's got a pretty steep learning curve ahead of him. Fortunately, he's always been an enthusiastic learner, and now is no exception.

Curiously, Castiel pushes his tongue forward, and Dean's breath hitches, a sound that makes him shudder. Their mouths open up, the kiss deepening, the need for oxygen being relegated to the background. His lips tingle pleasantly.

Castiel pulls away for a moment to gather himself, but Dean makes a sound like he's dying and Castiel throws himself back into it, determined. He can feel Dean responding to it, his kisses becoming more demanding, his hips thrusting minutely against Castiel's thigh. Dean cups Castiel's face, angling him to the side and pushing his tongue deeper still. Castiel groans softly.

Several minutes later, Dean forces himself to pull back, panting. "Jesus," he exhales, staring at Castiel's face in wonder. "Why do you taste so _good?_ " Dean crushes their lips together, getting another three or four kisses in before tearing himself apart once more. "You're a freakin' drug, man. I could do this all night."

"I have no objections to that," Castiel replies, but his words are slightly muffled because Dean's now sucking at his bottom lip, and Castiel is more than happy to let him do so.

They kiss and kiss and time seems to go on forever here, tucked inside this alleyway. Castiel has spent most of his life alone, feeling like he could be content in his loneliness, maybe; that he could get by without the comfort of human touch. At this moment, however, his chest feels so _full_ , every little ache in his body from the week's work fading into the background, unimportant. There is only Dean and his mouth and the little whines that are forcing their way out of his throat. There's the feel of his hands on his face, gentle yet commanding, and Castiel feels anchored here, in this moment, really breathing Dean in and everything that he is.

He isn't sure what he expected from tonight. This...was not what he expected. Something so precious and intimate, with Dean devouring his mouth and holding him close. Sure, there's sexual tension so thick you could chop it up and serve it as a side salad, but Castiel's content with this, taking it slow, just exploring one another.

Dean's grinding slowly against him, one hand on his neck, the other climbing lower towards his belt. Then, they hear the worst sound in the world ― Dean's phone rings.

Against his mouth, Dean freezes. Castiel opens his eyes, overwhelmed by Dean's bright green irises, and then Dean's squeezing his eyes shut and groaning. "Damn it."

Castiel pushes him away, despite Dean's attempts to get back to his mouth. "Is it your brother?"

"Probably," Dean says, sounding like he's in pain. His eyes are shut tight, as if fighting off some bad headache. His fingers are clenched in Cas' coat, the phone still ringing shrilly.

"Dean?" Castiel prompts.

With a great deal of effort, Dean steps out of Castiel's arms and pulls out his phone. "Yeah?" he answers, breathless.

Castiel observes Dean silently. Suddenly, he seems different ― softer, somehow. His shoulders are less rigid, his body slumped as if his bones are made of jelly. His hair's mussed, and both his lips and cheeks are a bright shade of red.

"What?" Dean says, annoyed. "I'm fine. You're just...interrupting. But, look―anyway. _Anyway._ What's up?" Pause. "Dude, I'm fine. Why are you calling?" Longer pause. "Yeah, okay." Even longer pause. "Seriously, Sam? So, you need me? Right now?" Castiel's shoulders sag. "I―yeah, yeah, I'm coming now. Okay. Yeah, I'll see you soon."

Castiel directs his gaze to the sky. _Damn you, Sam._

"Fucking hell," Dean mutters, shoving his phone back into his pocket. "My brother has the worst timing in the world."

"Yes, he most certainly does," Castiel says, accepting defeat.

"Listen," Dean says, closing the distance between them, planting his palms on Castiel's waist. "You're awesome, okay? I don't wanna bail on you, but...it's work stuff, y'know? So, I don't really have a choice." He squeezes Castiel's waist reassuringly. "You got my number though, yeah?"

"Yes."

"Cool." Dean smiles at him, and he looks so _exposed_ right now, it's strange. He always carries himself with cocky self-assurance, but now it's as if every line of defence has been torn down, leaving nothing but a beautiful young boy with earnesty written in every pore of his skin. "Cool. Thanks, uh. I'm real sorry. You okay getting home?"

"Yes, I'll be okay." Castiel touches his cheek, brushing his thumb across the skin. Dean leans into it; something twinges inside Castiel's ribcage. "Don't apologise. I had a nice night, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean exhales shakily. "Yeah, me too. Sorry it couldn't, uh, keep going." Dean quirks a suggestive brow. Castiel chuckles.

"It's fine, really. There's always another time."

Dean nods. "Hell yeah. Maybe we'll actually get to second base next time."

Castiel leans forward, smiling and feeling ridiculous, resting his forehead against Dean's shoulder. Dean allows it for a few, quiet seconds, then takes him by the chin and lifts him to eye level. "I better go." Dean leans forward, kissing him on the cheek. "I'll come by the library tomorrow, okay?"

And from one moment to the next, Castiel's left alone.

He stands there, leaning against the wall, pensive. The bricks are icy, pressing through every one of his layers, sending shivers up his back. His fingers are going numb, so he shoves them into his coat pockets, hunching in on himself.

Castiel feels unsettled and he can't summon the energy to move just yet. It’s been ten minutes now since Dean left, which makes his behaviour all the more pathetic. But there’s...there’s something weird about this whole situation. Something about Dean’s sudden departure that rubs Castiel the wrong way.

He shakes his head. No, it's not the mere act of Dean _leaving_ that's bothering him. He's disappointed, sure, but there's a sense of _wrongness_ sitting at the back of his mind, and he can't put it aside just yet.

What kind of job does Dean do, exactly? Not that Castiel had asked him directly, but Dean's been pretty tight-lipped about it, especially considering that he's bailed on Castiel _twice_ now because of this job of his. He left once at lunch time, and now at 9 o'clock at night. Hours which are completely at odds with one another.

Dean's from out of town, too, and working closely with his brother by the sounds of it. Then there's the bizarre research he's been getting up to ― the meteor showers of all things. Are they travelling astronomers or something? Or maybe they're on the conspiracy side of history, believers in the "raising of the dead" theory? Bodies _were_ found missing from their respective graves, but most historians write that they were incinerated or crushed on impact. Are they writing a PhD on it? Are they journalists?

Castiel shakes himself. He can ponder all of this at home. It's late, it's cold, and he really should get going.

He propels himself off the wall and back onto the main street. The streets themselves are deserted, but restaurants and pubs are bursting with hungry, boisterous patrons. Castiel wraps his coat tighter around himself and marches off in the direction of home. His nose and ears are turning into icicles so he walks quickly, grateful that he's only five or so minutes away from his warm bed.

He turns off the busier streets and into residential area. There are lights on in many of the townhouses and apartments but there's nobody on the road, not even a whisper of conversation or life. He walks past the stomping grounds of Theo, who typically greets Castiel with enthusiastic barks and a lolling tongue, no matter what ungodly hour it may be. Theo doesn't come to see him, however, and after lingering by the gate, Castiel continues on.

The silence is strange. It's bedtime for many people but there's usually _some_ noise, like screeching children or an obnoxious motorcycle. Castiel hears nothing whatsoever.

It winds up being a good thing, this unsettling quiet, because had it been noisier, Castiel might not have heard the soft, rhythmic sound of footsteps trailing behind him. He glances over his shoulder but it's too dark to see if anyone's there. He stops in the middle of the street, listening. The footsteps have stopped, too.

He starts walking again, slowly. Sure enough, he can hear the footsteps. They're higher-pitched to the pounding of his boots against the pavement, not to mention still slightly out of sync with Castiel's own.

Castiel pauses again, mid-step. There are two extra steps from behind him and then a fumbling halt. Whoever is behind him must be at least _trying_ to keep himself hidden, which means Castiel could very well be in a lot of trouble very shortly.

He spins on his heel, gearing up for a fight, but no-one is there. The streets are empty, save for himself and scattered bits of garbage.

Castiel can definitely feel a pair of eyes on him, though.

He's feeling hot now, his heart pushing blood faster and faster throughout his body. There's a pang of _fear_ that shoots through him, the silence of the neighbourhood making him feel alone and vulnerable. The weight of the pocket knife presses against his torso, and he spares a moment to mentally pat himself on the back for his past-self's smart thinking. He closes his hand around the cool metal, then keeps walking.

The street lights start to flicker. Not just one light, but all of them. Sweat forms on his brow and it's becoming difficult to control his breathing. He means to keep quiet so he can hear the footsteps, but panic's needling into his skin and forcing air out of his mouth in shallow, hurried breaths. Whoever's behind him is considerably further back but every footstep feels like they're getting closer and closer, preparing to pounce on Castiel and force him to the ground.

Finally, he comes to his street and jogs the rest of the way to the apartment block. His hands are shaking as he tries to force the key in the lock. Castiel checks frantically over his shoulder but he's moving his head back and forth so rapidly everything around him is a smeared blur.

The lock turns, Castiel pushes inside and slams the door closed. The door pings, locking behind him. He exhales, hunched over, _afraid_ , then turns back to the door. Most of the door is made of reinforced glass, allowing Castiel to see out onto the street. The lobby lights have automatically switched on, and they dim and brighten intermittently. It’s hard to see beyond his panicked reflection.

There's no movement outside, nobody waiting on his doorstep. Castiel backs away from the door, legs like jelly. He walks backwards down the hallway until he gets to the stairwell, then turns and hurries up two flights of stairs as quickly as he can.

Once he's inside the walls of his apartment, he sags to the ground with relief. He curls his arms around his knees and trembles.


	3. Part III

Sometime later, Castiel's still on the floor, face buried in his arms. His hair is damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead but his breathing's become soft, regular. With a great amount of effort, he pulls himself to a standing position.

He'd neglected to turn the lights on, so the apartment is still bathed in darkness. He knows the layout of his home well, however, and easily makes his way to the windows without tripping over anything. Castiel takes the corner of the curtain and shifts it just a little, giving him enough space to peek out onto the street. It's well and truly deserted. Castiel's relieved sigh fogs up the glass.

"Okay," he murmurs, tugging the curtain back into position. “Everything’s okay."

Once he double checks that the front door is well and truly bolted shut, he flicks on the lights and makes his way to the kitchen. The microwave reads 23:08, which is a true testament to just how long Castiel had rested on the floor. The whole ordeal has worked his stomach into painful knots. Fortunately, he has a whole container of strawberry yogurt in the fridge, so he grabs it and heads to the couch.

Normally, he'd hate the couch for its lumpy cushions and that one spring that always digs into his lower back. Tonight, however, this couch is a cradle for him, keeping him safe from the outside world. As he turns on the TV to the twenty-four hour news station, he wonders, dismally, whether he's finally losing his mind.

Had anybody _actually_ been following him? Or had it been an echo of his own footsteps combined with his overactive brain? Did he actually manage trick himself into a full-blown panic attack?

Castiel spoons yogurt into his mouth, contemplative. Perhaps, yes. Perhaps he's become too paranoid. He invests a great deal of time into the mystery and thriller genre, so it's quite possible his imagination got carried away. His mind is constantly jumping to conclusions when it comes to these sorts of things.

But...on the other hand, no. No, he swore there had been someone out there. They'd been following him; he’d heard their shoes scuff against the pavement. He might not have seen them but he'd felt them there, keenly, eliciting a chill along his spine that had nothing to do with the cool night air.

There had been nowhere for his would-be assailant to hide, however. No convenient bushes or post boxes to duck behind each time he turned around. It’s strange as hell.

Castiel sighs, kneading at his forehead. The more he thinks about it, the more likely it seems that nobody had been following him after all. This whole ordeal is bringing on a monstrous headache.

Shaking himself, he tries to clear the subject from his mind. He manages it, somewhat, but sleep doesn't come to him easily. The clock ticks past midnight and well beyond, until Castiel's eyes are bleary and stinging. He can't quite relax long enough to sleep, something dragging him back to consciousness every time he gets close. It's quite fortunate that tomorrow - or today, rather - is his day off.

Around three, he's slipped into a doze. He's racing through a forest, the pathways between trees growing narrower and narrower until he can't pass through. There's a weird humming sound, the sound of some creature advancing on him. The humming grows louder, deafening, then he feels something grab his shoulder and spin him around and―

Gasping, Castiel sits up. The TV's signal has cut out again, screeching white noise. It's raining outside, which is usually enough to upset the flimsy excuse of a satellite on top of the building.

Remote in hand, he means to switch off the TV and retire for the night, but at that moment the signal conks back to life. The news station, which had been repeating the same stories over and over again for the past couple of hours, is now featuring a different story.

 _"A seventeen-year-old boy has been found dead just outside his home on Coral Avenue at ten o'clock this evening."_ Castiel's insides turn icy ― Coral Avenue is a mere twenty minutes away from his apartment. _"Neighbours heard the boy yelling for help, but by the time they found him, he was lying in the middle of the street with a fatal stab wound in his chest. His murderer had already fled the scene."_

Numerous photographs fade in and out across the screen featuring a youthful, pimply boy with bright blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. In many of the photos, he appears to be wearing a Wiener Hut uniform.

" _Police say that this incident shares suspicious similarities to the murder of Anael Milton, the young woman who was found outside her apartment with a stab wound in the centre of her chest."_

Two new pictures appear which feature a set of symmetrical black wings drawn across the concrete floor. It looks like they were drawn on with charcoal, or perhaps even burnt into the ground. Between the wings is a lighter mark which seems to be distinctly human-shaped.

" _Both victims were found with angel wings graffitied into the ground beside them. Police aren't sure how the wings came to be there, considering the limited time frame."_

A white man with a thick, grey moustache appears on the screen, donned in a police uniform.

" _These two victims share, uh, some frighteningly similarities for it to be pure coincidence. We will need to look into the situation further, but at this stage, there don't appear to be any personal connections between the victims. The, uh, the murderer's MO at this stage is unclear, but we will definitely be looking into it further."_

The screen switches back to the newsreader. " _Samandriel Alphonse was a beloved son, a generous young man, and a bright student at―"_

Castiel can't listen to it anymore. The TV's switched off before he even realises what his hands are doing. He feels unsettled to his very core. He’s chilled and nauseated and strangely melancholy, and what he needs more than anything right now is a shower and a very long sleep.

\---

It's still drizzling by the time Castiel wakes up. His eyes are like hot coal in his sockets, burning angrily. His brain is fogged over and far from functioning, but he drags himself to the bathroom anyway.

The hot water does wonders for the stiffness in his spine - a consequence of lounging in his subpar couch for several hours - but nothing for his mind's sluggishness. He changes into clean clothes and brushes his teeth, then tugs on his trenchcoat and steps outside.

He needs coffee; the good kind. His apartment's not equipped with anything beyond the instant stuff, plus the cafe down the road has a talented barista who always smiles warmly when Castiel stops by. As much as he'd love to hole up in his bedroom all day, he really should get outside and try to enjoy his day off. A walk and some fresh air will do him good.

Outside his apartment, there’s a peculiar smell of rotten eggs. Someone must have dumped something disgusting in the bins. Couldn’t they have waited until bin night? Castiel wrinkles his nose in distaste.

The walk back through suburbia is unsettling, bringing forth a sense of paranoia that Castiel is unable to deal with right now. He speeds past the homes, not even sparing a glance at Theo, who comes rushing over for a pat. The puppy eyes do nothing to slow him down, although he does feel a twinge of guilt.

Once at _Othello's_ , the scent of coffee soothes him significantly. Here, there are other people with  a united purpose ― his temporary safety net. He tips the barista generously and returns her smile, then snatches up his cup and slumps into a chair in the far corner.

Castiel has no clue what to do with himself today. He's back at work tomorrow, a thought that makes him almost sick with bitterness. He sips his drink slowly, staring aimlessly around the cafe, waiting for inspiration to strike. Too restless to stay at home, too brainless to think of something to do. Damn it.

The caffeine slips into his bloodstream leisurely, easing the pain in his eyes, the fog drifting around his skull. Last night's events start to return to him now, but not the bad memories this time. No, instead he thinks of pleasant chitchat, a nice burger, human contact, the press of bricks against his back. That's right, he'd gotten dinner with Dean yesterday. He hadn't even thought about their date ― was it a date? By conventional standards it had to be, surely ― since Dean had left him in that alleyway.

Suddenly, warmth blooms in his chest, tangling with his ribs, wrapping itself around him snugly. He almost laughs; it's unbelievable that his biggest concern back then had been whether Dean was ditching him or not. Castiel'd been worried that the date hadn't gone well, that Castiel's kissing capabilities were limited at best, that Dean wouldn't want to see him again. It's all so...ridiculous. Being stalked on your way home really puts things into perspective.

Smiling, Castiel reaches a decision. Dean had said he'd come by the library sometime today, right? He could be there _now_ for all Castiel knows.

The coffee is only half empty, so he takes it with him and heads out into the street. The library's close by and it's only two o'clock, so there are people scattered about. Castiel feels relatively safe but he walks quickly anyway, wanting the protection of four solid walls and a security camera.

He's greeted by a bemused Metatron, who cocks a brow at him. "Castiel, this is a surprise."

He nods. "I'm meeting someone here."

"Very well." Metatron shrugs, then adds, "Don't be afraid to clean up around here if the urge strikes you."

Castiel has no intention of doing anything of the sort, but he smiles before heading over to the fantasy section.

 _A Song of Ice and Fire_ finds its way into Castiel's hands. He's read it twice before but Dean's not here yet, so he needs to keep himself preoccupied somehow. He opens it up to the familiar first pages and starts to read, checking his watch intermittently.

An hour passes, then two, then three. The sun's sinking beneath the city skyline, so Metatron switches on more lights. Castiel sits at his table glumly, leg twitching. Maybe Dean will stop by later on.

Another hour passes. The library won't close until 10 but virtually nobody is here except for Castiel and his boss, who's disappeared into his office. Last night's vulnerability is starting to grow more and more, and Castiel doesn't want to make the trek home in the darkness. He'll wait a little longer, since the sun's basically set anyway, but he's paranoid and he wants to get home.

At seven-thirty, Castiel gives up on waiting around. His thumb hovers over the Call button, considering, but he doesn't want to be a bother. Maybe Dean's busy. At the same time, however, Dean doesn't have Castiel's phone number, so how else are they supposed to contact each other?

It's only been a day, he reasons, so he settles for pocketing his phone again and making the journey back to his apartment. The trip is uneventful, but once he's back home, he curls up on the couch with Thursday night's carbonara and feels more disappointed than he probably has any right to be.

\---

Castiel works from midday to ten, but he doesn't see Dean at all. After debating with himself for a number of hours, he works up the courage to call just before he clocks off.

" _Hey, this is Dean Winchester. Leave your name and nightmare at the tone."_

He frowns at his phone, hanging up. He calls again, and after a number of rings, he hears the answering machine once more.

This time he says, "Hello, Dean. This is―this is Cas. When you're not busy, please give me a call." He presses the hash key, then ends the call.

Work hadn't been particularly riveting today. It was a ghost town from three onwards, which is a surprise, even for a Tuesday. Castiel's worn out and his feet ache, but he would have very much enjoyed Dean's company, even if it was just his voice. Not seeing or hearing from him just makes him ooze with uncertainty; all those insecurities of his just bubbling inside his head. Maybe Dean's job was just a convenient excuse for him to blow Castiel off.

He shakes his head. No, things had been going well, he _knows_ that. Castiel's caught himself a couple of times picturing Dean's face when they'd broken apart, that starstruck gaze and gaping mouth. The memory's enough to bring a blush to Castiel's cheeks.

For the love of all that is holy, Castiel needs to see that man again. With a bit of luck, he'll have a missed call on his phone by the time he's back at his apartment.

Admittedly, Castiel walks faster than he normally does, so perhaps that's why there are no messages for him by the time he gets home. However, his phone remains silent for the duration of the evening, and when Castiel wakes up that morning, there are no more messages than there had been last night.

He takes a moment to lie on his back and stare at the ceiling, chewing his bottom lip unhappily. There are no messages, true, but he's just overreacting. It doesn't stop the disappointment from gnawing a hole in his gut, but if he can rationalise the situation, maybe it'll help him get out of bed this morning.

It does. Well, it gets him out of bed, at least. He's grim-faced, dragging his feet all the way to work. The salad he'd made for himself is sitting back home on his kitchen bench, but he can't summon the energy to go back for it. His stomach gurgles at him, displeased. Why do bodies even need food? Or water, or sleep? It all seems too tedious to bother with most days.

The moment he enters the library, he spots Metatron by the front desk. "Morning, Castiel!" Metatron says in a sing-song voice.

Castiel grunts, shrugging off his coat.

"I hope you're not planning to greet our customers like that, are you?" Metatron asks, quirking a brow in challenge.

He shakes his head. "Of course not," he mumbles. "My apologies, sir."

No matter how long the day drags on, Castiel's mood doesn't get any better. During his lunch break he checks his phone again, but all he finds is an email notification for your run of the mill spam mail. He deletes it with an aggressive swipe of his thumb and then tosses his phone into his backpack. He refuses to look at it anymore. The urge is too distracting.

Maybe Dean's already left town, Castiel considers. Maybe this is what it's like to be on the receiving end of the “love 'em and leave 'em” approach to sex, only Castiel didn't actually end up getting to the sex part.

This whole situation is frustrating the hell out of him. His life is a monotonous cycle of go to work, sleep, go to work, get stalked on the way home, go to work, and so on and so forth ad nauseum. Dean had been a reprieve; something new and exciting that filled up that yawning cavern behind his ribcage. Dean had promised he'd see him again, that he'd come by the library, and since he hasn't shown up yet, Castiel's worked himself up into a fury. He's not angry at Dean, per se. It's more that he's annoyed at himself for getting his hopes up.

But what was he hoping for, exactly? Dean's just a man with lots of tattoos and a vague life story. What did Castiel expect, that Dean was going to show Castiel another way of life? Whisk him away from his customer service role? Take him on crazy adventures, doing whatever job it is that Dean and his brother do? For the love of God, Castiel doesn't even know what Dean does for a living. This is exactly why Castiel shouldn't have latched onto him as desperately as he had. This is his own fault, as per usual.

There's still a chance that Dean will come to the library, Castiel reasons, but he prepares himself for a no-show. Better to have expectations exceeded than to fall short of the mark.

Metatron leaves, the customers make their slow exit back into the outside world, and Castiel's left to his own devices for several hours. He scribbles more of his novel down onto tacky receipt paper. He draws up a character profile, too, for a man with angelic wings made of charcoal and ash.

At ten, Castiel's caught up in his own thoughts as he's closing up the building. The moment that lock clicks into place, however, he freezes.

Somebody's watching him. Every hair on the back of his neck stands on end.

With forced calm, he slips his fist into his pocket and fits the keys between his knuckles. His pocket knife is buried in his backpack, so he'll have to make do with this. Staring straight ahead, he turns to his right and starts on his familiar journey home, listening carefully. Ten seconds later, there's the unmistakable sound of footsteps, almost in sync with his own.

He doesn't panic. Not much, anyway. It might be late but at least he can take the busy streets home. It'll take longer but there'll be people around, so he'll be fine. Nobody's going to try anything when they can easily be caught, right?

Except, no matter how far he walks, he doesn't encounter anyone else. Not a single living thing whatsoever. He's passing restaurants and pubs yet nobody's inside, not even waiters by the looks of it. Where on earth has everybody disappeared to? And why now, when he's being followed once again? Castiel's never experienced deja vu quite like this.

Several minutes pass, Castiel keeps moving, and someone trails behind him. The quickening beat of his heart thrums in his ears, sweat beginning to soak through his shirt. This has to be some sort of nightmare. How could there be nobody around? How can there be no sound but their quick footsteps? He clutches his keys tighter, hoping the pain will force him awake, but the city doesn't blur or fade from sight. Somehow, despite his hopes, Castiel knows that the ground beneath his feet is as real as he is.

Screw it, he thinks, and then turns around. Whoever's tailing him has managed to conceal themselves once again. Castiel struggles for a moment, wondering whether he should risk going back and checking behind dumpsters and parked cars, see if his stalker is even real. With a bit of luck, this is all just some vivid hallucination, and he'll promptly make an appointment with a well-known psychiatrist.

But, if his stalker is real, then Castiel's giving them a prime opportunity to do...whatever it is they intend to do. Mug him, beat him, kill him. Maybe he’ll wind up on the news, too.

He keeps going, moving faster now. His home's not far away, but he has a sick feeling that he won't make it. The lights keep flickering and everything is so wrong, what in the hell is going on? Those goddamn footsteps start up again, not far behind. Without any other options, Castiel runs.

He carries himself as far and as fast as he can, shoes smacking heavily against the pavement. His backpack jostles against him, swinging wildly, but he doesn't throw it away because of the weapon buried in the back pocket. Despite the wind rushing past his ears and the unbearably loud pounding of his pulse, he can hear the footsteps behind him speeding up into a sprint. Now he's being goddamn chased, and he's so, so afraid he can hardly breathe.

Above his head, something shatters, glass cascading all around him. Castiel wants to scream but he just can't; it's too difficult to breathe, let alone speak.. He runs and runs and his thighs and lungs burn in equal measure, but he keeps going. He doesn't check behind him but he swears his stalker is getting closer, those footsteps ringing louder.

He works up the courage to look behind him at the same time he rounds a corner. Next thing he knows, he smacks chest-first into something, or someone.

Castiel staggers back, gearing up for a fight, but he deflates the moment he hears someone speak.

"Dude, what the fuck are―Cas?" Dean stares at him, wide-eyed. "What the hell is going on? Are you okay?"

"Dean," Castiel exhales, voice wrecked. He doesn't quite believe what he's seeing. How is Dean here? What on earth...? "I'm―I'm being chased, Dean. I think they're trying to hurt me."

"Who is?" Dean demands. He's holding a crushed milkshake in his hand, which is leaking down his fingers. Oh, it must be crushed because Castiel ran into it. That explains the damp, sticky something that's soaking through his shirt. "Cas, who's chasing you?"

"I don't know," Castiel says, looking back the way he came. If his stalker is still nearby, he must be hiding behind the corner. "They followed me from the library, and...and I think they were following me a few nights ago, too."

"Okay, stay here," Dean says, voice firm. He gestures towards a sleek, black car that's parked close by. "Stay with my car. I'll be back."

"No," Castiel protests, fear seizing him. "Wait―"

"I won't go far," Dean promises, and then he pulls out a gun, because of course he has a gun. Finally, something that matches up with his fierce, bad boy aesthetic. "I'll be two minutes, tops."

Castiel chews his lip and nods, watching Dean disappear behind the corner. God, what if Dean doesn't come back? What if Dean's just a part of this messed up hallucination? Or dream, or whatever it is.

He stands there for a solid twenty seconds before inching his way closer to the car. He tugs the handle and almost sags with relief when it opens. Once inside, he sinks low into the passenger seat, keeping himself out of sight.

Two minutes pass but it feels like an hour. He's panting, breathless, fogging up the windows. His heart rate starts to slow but his entire body's shaking, rocking the car a little. Castiel wonders if he'll ever feel safe leaving this apartment again.

Eventually, he becomes more aware of his surroundings. Like the fact that he's in Dean's car, which is remarkably clean and comfortable. Something smells delicious, and he identifies the source to be a takeaway bag pressed up against his calf on the floor. There's another milkshake sitting in the drink holder, and Castiel's tempted to drink it, but he decides against it. His throat may feel like sandpaper but it'd probably just make him sicker than he already is. Besides, it's Dean's. It would be rude.

A few anxiety-ridden minutes later, Dean reappears, gun hidden from sight. Castiel relaxes instantly.

Dean spots him already in the car and climbs into the driver's seat. "I couldn't find anyone. They must have already taken off."

Castiel shakes his head. "No, I'm probably just losing my mind."

"Nah, Cas, it's not that." He stares outside, eyes narrowed in suspicion. The streetlights have stopped flickering. "Something's not right."

"You're telling me," Castiel groans, burying his face in his hands. "I don't understand anything that's going on anymore." He glances up at Dean. "Could you take me home, please?"

Dean nods, squeezing his shoulder. "Sure thing."

It's not a particularly long trip to his apartment, especially when going by car. Dean's car growls with each shift of gears, and he's obviously content behind the wheel, even humming a little, perhaps to soothe Castiel's nerves. Castiel appreciates it, his fondness for Dean growing, despite the trauma still thrumming steadily in the back of his mind.

Castiel directs Dean all the way up to the visitor's parking spot at the back of the apartment block. Dean switches off the engine and the lights. Darkness descends upon the car.

"Uh," Dean begins, uncertain. "Do you, er, want me to come up?"

In all honesty, Castiel's not quite sure what it would mean for Dean to come upstairs. Castiel knows, without a doubt, that he could not have sex right now, even if he wanted to. His body is aching and he can't stop coughing. Not to mention the tremors wracking his body haven't lessened whatsoever.

Castiel sighs. "I don't know."

"I ain't trying to make a move on you, dude," Dean says, watching him. "No funny business, I swear. Let me help you inside and get you some water or something."

He takes a moment to think this over, then concedes. With a monumental effort, Castiel pulls himself out of the car. He misses the warmth of the vehicle already; the night is cold and offers him little comfort. The icy air stings his throat.

Dean locks the car, milkshake and takeaway bag in hand, and together they make their way to the entrance. As they walk, Dean's head swivels from side to side, double checking every shadowy corner they come across. Castiel's grateful for that - he needs to zone out now, just focus on putting one foot in front of the other. The stairwell is particularly tricky to navigate, and Castiel nearly trips when they reach the top of the first flight of steps. Dean's hand is warm on his back, though, keeping him steady.

Castiel unlocks the door with shaky hands, then hits the lights. As everything blinks into view, Castiel's suddenly embarrassed for the state of his apartment: it's already a pretty shabby place, but he hasn’t cleaned up for a while now. He hasn't vacuumed in an eternity and his coffee table's littered with junk mail and dirty plates.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Castiel turns to Dean. "I'm sorry about the mess." He gestures helplessly around the room. "I'm not the most disciplined of homeowners."

Dean chuckles, waving him off. "Don't even worry about it. Trust me, I see the insides of two-star motels most of the time. Compared to those dumps, this place is immaculate." He turns his attention towards the kitchen. "Sit down and I'll fix you up, okay?"

"Thank you," he mumbles. He's more than happy to be coddled right now.

The couch is far from perfect but it's a far cry from being pursued down an abandoned sidewalk. He sighs, tugging a cushion against his chest, tipping over onto his side. He can hear the tap turn on and off, and then a glass is being placed in front of his field of vision.

"You want the TV on?" Dean asks, sagging into the space beside Castiel's head.

"Yes, please."

"Anything in particular?"

Castiel shrugs. "You can choose."

So Dean turns over to a hospital drama, featuring a rather attractive man wearing cowboy boots. For a few minutes they sit in silence, soaking up each other's presence. The cushion is soft against his torso, squishy like the stuffed puppy dog he used to sleep with when he was younger. Dean's thigh is pressed gently against the top of his skull, warm and reassuring. A long, slow exhale drifts through Castiel's lips. Little by little, the trembling fades from Castiel's body.

"I got you some food, by the way," Dean says after a while. He waves a hand at the takeaway bag and milkshake. "That's for you."

Castiel frowns. "Don't you want it?"

"Uh." Dean shifts on the couch. "Actually, I was on my way to the library. See if I could catch you. But, well, I stopped for food and figured I'd grab you some, too. But, er, you'd already left by the time I got there, so..."

He sits up, stares at the food on the coffee table, then back at Dean. "Did you really buy this for me?"

"Yeah," Dean says, cheeks turning pink. "I mean, if you don't want it―"

At that moment, Castiel's stomach gurgles obnoxiously loud, and he's suddenly so famished he can't stand it for a moment longer. "No, I definitely want it." To emphasise his point, he snatches up the bag and tears into it.

Dean laughs at him, but Castiel doesn't care. It's like all of his anxiety from the evening has transformed into insatiable hunger. He unwraps his burger and takes a huge bite. It's lukewarm but delectable. Dean grins at him.

"These make me very happy," Castiel sighs dreamily.

He devours the whole thing in four bites, then starts on his milkshake. It's vanilla, his favourite. God bless this man sitting next to him. The TV show ― _Dr. Sexy_ , he's learned ― has ticked over to another episode by the time he's finished his drink. He looks at Dean, who's preoccupied with the TV, and gives him a smile. "Thank you."

Dean meets his gaze. "For the food? S'no problem."

Castiel shakes his head. "For the food, yes, but for everything else, too." Feeling courageous, he leans forward and plants a soft kiss to the corner of Dean's mouth. When he pulls back, he's met with an utterly stupefied expression.

"Um," Dean says, mouth agape.

Castiel's cheeks burn. "I'm sorry, was that inappropriate?"

"N-no," Dean says, slightly dazed. "No, it was just...not what I was expecting. No big deal."

Uncertain, Castiel looks down at the couch. He picks at one of the loose threads. "I apologise. I'm not very good at this."

A few seconds pass, awkwardly, and then Dean chuckles. "Cas, it's not a big deal, like I said. Here―" He extends an arm around Castiel's shoulders, tugging him close so they're pressed together from hips to waist. "And now―" He presses a kiss to Castiel's cheekbone. "There, now we're even. See?" He squeezes him reassuringly. "No big deal. Just relax, okay? Don't worry so much."

Castiel nods, his stomach twisted with nerves. Or maybe it's from drinking that milkshake too quickly, he can't tell.

Midnight rolls around and finds Dean and Castiel still sitting beside each other, although with a comfortable amount of space between them now. Eventually, Castiel gets up to use the bathroom, and when he returns, he finds Dean standing up, stretching his arms high. His shirt rides up, exposing warm, tattooed skin. Castiel's mouth salivates just a little.

"Well, I better get going." Dean yawns. "Are you gonna be alright?"

Castiel considers this carefully. Honestly? He's not sure how comfortable he is with being left alone again. His brief expedition to the toilet had resulted in a lot of paranoid checking around corners and behind half-closed doors. He'd practically sprinted back to the lounge room once he'd finished up his business. Besides, it's late, and if Dean's yawning then he probably shouldn't be driving, so…

"Would you mind staying over?" Castiel asks before he can stop himself. Surprise dances across Dean's face, so Castiel ploughs on, "I just, I mean, it's already quite late, and I would definitely appreciate the company, so..." He shrugs helplessly.

Dean frowns, obviously torn. He reaches into his pocket and retrieves his phone, flipping it open. After a bit of deliberation, he nods to himself and puts his phone away. "Yeah, that should be fine. Where am I sleepin'?"

"The couch folds out," he says, moving closer. "The mattress is decent. I could give you my bed, if you'd prefer?"

"Nah," he says with a dismissive wave. "This'll do me."

They make quick work of the couch, unfolding it with ease, despite the high-pitched squeak of the hinges. Pillows and blankets are obtained from the cupboard down the hall, and Castiel means to retire to his own bed, truly, but Dr. Sexy is still on, so he figures he'll keep Dean company for a little bit longer.

A little bit longer turns out to be maybe an hour or two later. Exhaustion finally set deep into his bones. Dean's still awake, smiling a little at the screen, emanating warmth from his side of the bed. Feigning sleep, Castiel curls up closer to him, so his forehead rests against his thigh.

As he drifts off again, he feels a hand cradle the back of his head, fingers sweeping gently through his hair.


	4. Part IV

When morning comes, Castiel feels revolting. His stomach's gurgling unpleasantly ― probably from the late night food ― and his muscles ache something dreadful. On the plus side, however, there's a very attractive man in his bed. Or on his couch, rather.

Dean's face is relaxed in sleep, all soft skin and long eyelashes. His lips are parted, expelling little puffs of air. Castiel watches him, mesmerised, longing to reach out and touch him. The very sight of Dean here, resting beside him, creates this warm ball of happiness inside his chest, growing larger and larger despite the pain in his body.

The sheets are pooled beneath Dean's arms, revealing miles and miles of beautiful inked skin. He must have stripped down to a simple tee at some point during the night. Close up, Castiel can identify every single tattoo as a myriad of supernatural phenomena: mythical beasts, the undead, all manner of lethal plants and animals. Castiel traces each mark with his eyes, trying to identify every little symbol and creature he finds. He's certain that's a naga just above his werewolf.

"You really dig my tats, huh?"

Castiel starts, then exhales. He meets Dean's gaze and smiles.

"They're interesting. And beautiful."

"C'mon now, Cas. You'll make me blush," he protests half-heartedly.

A moment of silence passes between them, but it’s comfortable. Through sleep-glazed eyes, they watch one another. Castiel finds Dean’s hand in the space between them, thumbing curiously over the butterfly tattoo printed there.

“I think this one’s my favourite.” Castiel glances up, smiling shrewdly. “Do you believe in butterfly monsters, Dean?”

Dean laughs but his expression is strained. “Uh, not quite. It’s sort of a symbol for...for my mom.” He clears his throat. “She had long blonde hair, like the colour of this butterfly, and uh...I dunno.” He shrugs, not meeting Castiel’s eyes. “I like it.”

Castiel notes the word _had_ , recognising the gravity of what Dean’s just told him. He squeezes Dean’s hand, noting the frown lines deepening on Dean’s forehead. An old wound has been opened, just a little.

Castiel shuffles forward on the mattress. Breath ghosting over Dean’s skin, he whispers, “I like it, too.”

Their lips find each other in slow, steady sweeps. For a few minutes, they allow themselves to explore one another’s mouths, drinking each other in.

From one moment to the next, however, Castiel’s being rolled over. Dean’s half on top of him, staring down at him with a gleam in his eye. Whatever melancholic mood Dean was in before, it’s completely disappeared now.

His hair's tussled from sleep, and at this proximity, Castiel can make out every single freckle dotting Dean's skin. Dean licks his lips. Castiel tracks the movement, heat curling in his stomach.

"So, uh, I stayed over, but we didn’t actually get to, you know..." he pauses, playing with the edge of Castiel’s t-shirt. “Get to the main event, so to speak.”

Castiel frowns at him. "You mean sex?"

Dean chokes on a laugh. "Jesus, Cas..." He shakes his head. "You're too much.   _Yes_ , I mean sex, if you wanna be blunt about it."

Castiel looks away, embarrassed. "If you want to have sex, I would suggest you stop making fun of me."

Dean turns away for a moment, hiding his amused grin, before turning back. "Sorry."

"Apology accepted," Castiel says primly. A moment later, however, the reality of the situation sets in. He gulps. "But just know that I, uh, I don't do this sort of thing very often." _Ever_ , more like.

"Yeah, I figured," Dean says, but his smile is kind. "Just relax. I'll take things real slow, okay?"

With a deep breath, Castiel nods. "Okay. I trust you."

Something about that must make Dean very happy, because the smile he gives him is so rewarding that Castiel almost forgets how nervous he is. He returns Dean's smile with one of his own.

Dean takes it slow, as promised. He teases Castiel's bottom lip, nibbling it gently. He devours his mouth with gentle sweeps of his tongue, eliciting soft sighs from them both. It's like that time in the alleyway, but a little less desperate. More controlled ― careful, considered seduction. Like last time, however, it's as if Dean can't bare to have their lips apart even for a second, for he kisses him over and over again until they're running out of air.

Next, he creeps down to his neck, biting and sucking the tender skin. Castiel runs his fingers experimentally along Dean's spine, exploring the shape of his back, his muscles, the soft cotton of his well-worn shirt. He's warm and strong but he's so tender, too, in the way that he traces Castiel's jaw with his thumb, how he presses sweet kisses to his cheeks and lips.

A meaty thigh fits between his own, placing exquisite pressure against his hardening erection. Castiel groans appreciatively, and Dean huffs against his neck, delighted.

Dean scoops Castiel's shirt over his head and then dives for his exposed chest, kissing and sucking in equal measure. Castiel practically purrs, relishing the attention, scraping gentle fingers through Dean's mess of hair. The morning sun bathes them in light, brightening up Dean's skin and highlighting mischief in his eyes.

When Dean fits a firm grip around Castiel's dick, Castiel lets out a long, relieved sigh. That's what Castiel feels, more than anything else in this moment: pure relief, oozing into his skin and leaving him warm and safe.

They move together, synchronised, Dean slipping his own pants down so that he can hold both of their erections in his palm. Castiel pants against his neck, focusing on that feel of their dicks pressed tightly together. He cannot understand how unbelievably _good_  Dean makes him feel in this moment ― how a single man can summon goosebumps all over Castiel's skin with a mere touch.

Dean does most of the work, admittedly. Castiel lies there, enjoying himself, arms akimbo. He wants to move but he's not quite sure where to put his hands, and eventually he settles for exploring Dean's lower back. Lower and lower his hands creep, settling on Dean's ass and squeezing, curious. A low growl forces its way out of Dean's throat, and next thing he knows, Castiel's having his breath enthusiastically kissed away. He grabs Dean's ass harder, pulling him closer.

In the end, Castiel climaxes first. It was to be expected, really. His orgasm builds up until Castiel's whimpering against Dean's mouth, murmuring, " _Dean_ ," in desperation.

Dean answers him with, "Do it, Cas, come on, show me what you got," and there's something about the roughness in Dean's voice that pushes him over, forcing him to thrust hard and fast, shooting come into Dean's hot grip. Over-sensitive, Castiel tries to shy away, but semen acts as a rather glorious lubricant, one that Dean seems to enjoy very much. He twitches in Dean's grip, squirming from the aftershocks.

Dean follows soon after, breathing heavily against Castiel's neck, more come shooting out with each grind of his hips, leaking onto Castiel's belly. For a few seconds, Dean holds himself above Castiel, shuddering and breathtaking. Then, he meets Castiel's gaze, eyes softening, and practically melts against him. It only seems natural for Castiel to gather him in his arms and press a kiss to the top of his head.

Neither of them move or speak for quite a while. The sunlight ascends, creeping higher up the wall, but Castiel knows it's still early in the day. A headache's settling behind Castiel's left eye and his body still hurts, but he's happy to be with Dean between these cheap Target sheets.

With a bit of luck, they can spend the day together, lazing in bed. He doesn't have work until four, so that would give them plenty of time.

Castiel massages Dean's back, pressing his fingers into tight muscles. Dean shifts, sighing against Castiel's clavicle. "You're pretty talented at that."

Castiel smiles sheepishly, even though Dean's eyes are closed. "It makes up for my inexperienced lovemaking skills."

Dean vibrates against him, laughing quietly. "Dude, what are you so worried about? You did fine. You touched my ass, we both made 'O' faces, life's a party." Dean lifts his head, staring at him through half-lidded eyes. "My head is total mush right now. How are you still thinking so much?"

Castiel shrugs, a movement which jostles Dean slightly. "I guess you weren't able to ― what's the expression? Blow my mind."

Dean lifts a brow, unimpressed. "Is that so?"

Castiel smiles, small but suggestive. "Don't see it as an insult, Dean. Think of it as a... _challenge_ , perhaps."

A slow grin tugs across Dean's face. "Oh, I see. A challenge, huh?" He grinds down luxuriously into Castiel's pelvis, smirking. It's way too soon for another round but it still feels good, drawing a shallow gasp from Castiel. "Alright then, you horndog. Gimme a few minutes and I'll show you what I'm capable of."

Anticipation squirms in Castiel's gut. He kisses Dean until everything else fades away.

\---

They have plenty of fun together, although Castiel was teased to the point of incoherent babbling ― as it turned out, Dean took Castiel's challenge of 'blow his mind' very seriously. Castiel's brain is akin to a lump of goo right now.

It's getting close to midday but Castiel's in no rush. Neither is Dean, apparently. They take a shower together, which wastes even more time, of course. Dean offers to wash Castiel's back, smiling cheekily, and next thing they know, Castiel's being pressed against the cool glass, lips occupied with Dean's.

At some point, Castiel confirms that there is, indeed, a dragon tattoo on Dean's butt.

Later, when they're dried and dressed and tangled up in the kitchen, Castiel concludes that this is one of the best mornings he's ever had. To go from the horrors of last night to a morning like this is an incredible feat on fate's part. Right now, he feels invincible; nothing in the world could drag him down. It feels so, _so_ good to have a connection like this with another human being. It may very well be the first time in his life he's ever felt like this.

Their lips cling to one another when Dean pulls back, resting his forehead against Castiel's. His eyes slip shut. "I don't know why, but I seriously can't stop kissing you."

Castiel smiles, running a finger along Dean's jaw. "Then why did you stop?"

Dean huffs. "'Cause I got a gaping hole where my stomach used to be. If I don't eat soon, I'm gonna collapse."

With a chuckle, Castiel shifts out of Dean's hold, which earns him a rather sad little sound from Dean. "I don't have much, I'm afraid. I have toast?" He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. "I could make coffee?"

"Nah, let's go out," Dean says, navigating his way back to the couch. "There's a place about ten minutes away that serves all day breakfast. I dunno about you, but I'm feeling pancakes and a whole lotta―shit." He stares at his phone. "Stupid thing's dead."

"Oh?" Castiel approaches him. "What model is it?"

"Some piece of crap Motorola," he grumbles, shoving it into his pocket. "I left my charger back at the motel."

"Do you want to go there first?"

"Well..." He shakes his head. "You know what? No. Sam can wait. I ain't starving to death over a phone."

"Pancakes, then," Castiel says with a decisive nod before snatching up his phone and wallet off the coffee table.

At that moment, two things happen at once: Dean jerks a thumb at the front door and says, "Shall we?", and simultaneously there comes a firm knock at the door. Whoever it is knocks three times, and then silence.

"You expecting company?" Dean asks.

"It could be my landlord," Castiel says uncertainly, frowning. That would be pretty unusual ― normally he gets a few days notice.

Castiel moves towards the door. There's a rather strange smell coming from the other side, similar to that bad eggs smell wafting around his apartment a few days ago. The door doesn’t have a peephole, so Castiel stands there, hand hovering over the doorknob, deliberating. A few seconds later, someone knocks again. Figuring it might me a neighbour, Castiel slowly opens the door.

Standing on his doorstep is a pretty brunette woman, her face framed in long, wavy hair. She stands about a head shorter than him, adorned in leather. She smirks at him, something dark glinting in her eyes.

"Castiel, right?" she drawls, voice lilting. She peers over his shoulder, grin widening. "Dean Winchester! What a surprise."

Suddenly, he hears Dean shout, “ _Cas!_ ” When Castiel glances in his direction, he sees that he's brandishing his gun. "Get away from her!"

Everything slows down, then speeds up all at once."Wait, what's―?!"

"I don't think so," the woman cuts in, and with a flick of her hand, Dean's thrown off his feet and tossed against the wall. The gun slips from his grip and skids along the tiles, far away from Dean's crumpled body.

It was like some invisible tidal wave had crashed into him. Dean struggles to his feet, makes a move towards his weapon, but Castiel sees the woman make another sweeping gesture and he's hurled back against the wall. Whatever it is pinning him there leaves virtually no room for movement, his feet dangling two feet off the ground.

"What are you doing to him?!" Castiel turns to her, enraged. A cocktail of shock and fear swirl nauseatingly in his gut. "Wha―how are you doing that? What is this?!"

"Cas, run!" Dean cries out. Anger and panic war across his face. "She'll kill you!"

Before he can even _begin_ to process Dean's warning, Meg swaggers through his front door, stepping up into his face. "Don't worry, I'm not going to kill you," she says, every word dripping with malicious intent. "That boy can be such a drama queen."

Castiel hastily steps back, glancing between the woman and Dean, who's struggling against the wall. "What―who are you?" Castiel demands.

"Hi, I'm Meg. I'm a demon." She extends a hand. "Castiel, right?"

Castiel blinks at her. "A demon? As in...?"

She chuckles. "Not the sexy kind _._ Or, well, _maybe_ the sexy kind."  She lifts a brow. "That depends on your taste."

Before Castiel can answer that, he hears Dean speak from behind him. "Castiel? Your...your full name is Cas _tiel?_ "

Castiel turns to him. "I―yes? Yes, that's my name."

Something like realisation descends upon Dean's face. His head falls back against the wall, defeated. "Of course it is."

Castiel takes several more steps away from Meg and braces himself on the kitchen counter. He takes a moment to process the situation: Dean's _floating_ off the ground, magnetized to the wall, and this woman, Meg, has waltzed into his apartment and declared herself a demon of some sort. On top of that, his apartment _reeks_ of spoiled eggs, and he thinks the source of the odour is Meg.

Literally nothing makes any sense. Apparently his _name_ is bad news, too. The headache from this morning has returned with a vengeance.

"Are you serious?" Meg says, directing her question at Dean. "You actually went home with the angel of Thursday by _accident?"_ Dean doesn't answer, opting to glare at the adjacent wall. "Huh. Well, I guess it's good thing you did, 'cause otherwise we'd never have found this one." She smiles wickedly. "Follow a Winchester and you always find something juicy."

Castiel, meanwhile, feels anger growing inside him. Enough of this. "I don't understand what's happening," he growls, voice simmering with fury. "Whatever it is you're doing to Dean, stop it. Put him _down_ and explain what's going on."

She grins at him, her smile not dissimilar to a Great White. "Sorry, Clarence, no can do. But if you come with me, maybe we can open up that discussion on the way."

"I'm not going _anywhere!_ " he snaps, hands balling into fists.

The lights begin to dim and brighten, on and off. A strange sense of deja vu dawns on him - the way the street lamps flickered when he'd been chased.

Is she doing this? Was she the one who was chasing him?

Meg raises her palms up in a placating gesture. "Alright, no need to get feisty."

He grits his teeth. The lights flicker aggressively. "Stop doing that," he says.

"You mean the lights?" she says coolly, eyes narrowed. "That's all you, Clarence."

"What are you talking about?" he exclaims, coming very close to throwing a punch at that smug expression. One of the lights in the kitchen sparks and blows out completely, and that gives Castiel pause. He looks over his shoulder, staring at the broken bulb, at the shards of glass on the floor. Suddenly, the lights stop flickering.

"You should watch that temper of yours," Meg drawls. "Could take somebody's eye out, you know."

"I..." He bites the inside of cheek, tasting copper. "I don't understand."

"How old are you? You gotta be in your late twenties, right?" Before he can respond, Meg continues, "Jeez, you're a late bloomer. Most of you fallen-types start remembering stuff before you're eighteen."

Castiel stares at her blankly. As slowly and clearly as possible he says, "I _do not_ understandwhat you're talking about."

With a long, exasperated sigh, Meg takes a seat on the arm of his couch. She takes a moment to admire Dean, who's still imprisoned against a cheap coat of paint, struggling against unseen forces. She smiles, then turns back to Castiel. "To be totally blunt about it, you're an angel," she declares, lifting a brow. "And I don't mean Charlie's angels. I'm talking about the real deal: fluffy winged warriors of Heaven. How's that for a bombshell?"

"You're crazy," Castiel replies immediately.

"Not crazy," Dean forces out through gritted teeth. "Not about this, anyway."

"So nice to see we agree for once," Meg taunts, batting her lashes. "Castiel, the angel of Thursday. You're small fry, not _quite_ the big guns we were looking for, but my contractor will be happy to have you."

"You're insane." Castiel backs away, further into the kitchen. Meg smiles, eyes glittering. She stands back up and takes several pointed steps towards him. "This whole thing is _insane_. Get out of my house. Stop hurting Dean and _go_."

"No." She smirks in his face. "I won't be doing that. _Lackeys!"_ she barks, making him jump. She doesn't take her eyes off him.

At the front door, Castiel can see two very large, burly men march into view. Thick veins jut out of the bigger one's neck, and the shorter one has forearms as thick as Castiel's thighs. Their arms rest akimbo, their bodies wide enough to block off the entryway completely. Meg might have some crazy telekinesis powers, but she's small, so he thought he'd be able to force her to leave if necessary. Now, of course, it's abundantly clear that he _won't_ be getting away, and not only is he in trouble but so is Dean.

Castiel's shoulders slump, dread twisting in his gut. "I will go with you," he says solemnly, "but only on the condition that you release Dean."

Meg shakes her head, feigning pity. "Sorry, Clarence, but he's coming too. He's a Winchester," she clarifies, like that means anything to Castiel at all. "That means he's valuable, like you. I don't mean to burst your bubble, sweetie, but neither of you get a choice in the matter."

Defeated, Castiel looks to the ceiling, hoping for some kind of miracle. It doesn't come.

\---

Abandoned warehouses are the kinds of clichés Castiel's read and seen a hundred times before, so he's not particularly surprised when the blindfold comes off and he's tied up in one. The real deal is so different to a book, though ― there's the stench of blood and mildew and dust and _filth_ and that god-awful egg smell. The walls stand high above Castiel's head, made of rusted metal and planks of rotting wood. It's almost completely dark, save for the square of light shining through the glass pane on the door.

The glass is smeared with dirt and cracked down the centre. The room only has one door, guarded by a man with indistinguishable features. There's no telling how many other guards are waiting outside or how big the complex is. The darkness seems to be closing in on him, little by little.

"Christ," he exhales shakily, leaning forward towards his knees. He's cuffed to a chair, the cold metal biting into his wrists. He wants to cry or scream but he does neither of those things, the reality that _he's probably going to die_ settling in and silencing him. He's going to die and he never got to publish that damn book he's been working on.

"Cas?"

Dean's voice is coming from behind him. He sounds close, and he also sounds exhausted, voice a mere rasp. He'd fought with Meg's backup the moment she'd released him from the wall. Dean's got some fighting skills, unquestionably, but he was ultimately overpowered.

"Dean," Castiel answers him. "Dean, I'm sorry, I don't know what's happening."

"S'okay," Dean replies, wincing. There's some clanking and shuffling going on - probably Dean trying to slip out of his restraints. "We'll figure this out."

"I'm not an angel, Dean!" Castiel exclaims, voice rising in panic. "I have no idea what they're talking about."

"Cas..." Dean sighs. "Did you know that they were coming for you?"

"No!" Castiel tries to face him, but his bonds are too tight. His shoulder twinges in complaint. "No, I―I was followed last night, when you found me. And I was followed home a few nights before, but nothing more than that. This past week has just..." Castiel shakes his head despairingly. "Nothing like this has ever happen to me before, I just―"

"Okay," Dean says, his voice sounding considerably less accusatory than it did before. "Okay, so you didn't know about-about what you are."

"I'm not _anything!"_ Castiel snaps, his words bouncing off the walls. "I'm just _me_."

"I'm sorry, Cas," Dean tells him, sounding genuine. "That demon _witch_ was telling the truth. You're an angel, with the halo, the harp, and whatever the hell else. That's why you've grown up with a funky ass name, and why the lights flicker when you're pissed off. I'm sure there's other things, too."

Castiel breathes shallowly, mulling this all over. His initial reaction is to argue, but the more he thinks about it, the more he starts to remember things ― a light bulb bursting above his mother's head when she'd taken away his Game Boy; lights flickering ominously whenever one of his numerous school bullies would start to yell or hurt him, eventually fleeing when the lights started to scare them.

His mother had told him that he'd been named Castiel before she adopted him. In his later teen years, Castiel had spent a great deal of time trying to find his biological parents, but there was no record of either one of them. Not at the orphanage he'd been adopted at, anyway. Hell, he had never known his surname before Novak. He never found that piece of information, either.

"This is a misunderstanding," he says, hunching in on himself. "It's not true."

"Believe me," Dean pleads. "I know it sounds insane but it's _true_ , Cas. Angels exist and so do douchebag demons and a whole lot of evil things. That's―that's why my brother and I have been in town, Cas. We sort of...we sort of take care of that stuff."

"What do you mean?" Castiel asks tiredly.

"Did you see those dead bodies on the news? The redhead and the wiener dog kid?"

"I―? Yes. I did."

"Those wing marks around their bodies? Not charcoal or graffiti or whatever else the media's talking about. When you kill an angel, they leave a mark. _That's_ the mark."

"Angel wings."

"That's right."

Castiel takes a deep breath. "These demons are killing angels."

"Some of them, yeah."

"Am I going to become another set of wings on the ground?" Castiel asks quietly.

"No," Dean says firmly. "I won't let that happen to you. I promise."

"I just...but why am I here?" Castiel knits his fingers together, holding tight. "If I were to believe all this, that I'm some sort of _angel_ , as impossible as it seems...then why am I on Earth? Why are there other angels here, too?"

"Well..." Dean pauses, readjusts his position on the chair, then continues, "Those weren't actually meteors that fell back in the 80s. Normal people find all kinds of ways to excuse the supernatural, but..."

"The angels...fell from Heaven?"

"Yeah."

"But why...?"

"I got no idea, Cas. Your guess is as good as mine." Clothes rustle behind him, and he thinks Dean might be shrugging. "A whole lot of you fell. From what I know, anyways. Number of 'meteors' were in the low fifties, and that's in this city alone. There are probably thousands of you out there, all over the world." Dean huffs a laugh. "Crazy world we live in, huh?"

Castiel sighs. "You’re not wrong."

They fall silent, conversation petering out into nothingness. What else can be said at this point, really? Castiel doesn't know. His insides are twisted in knots. At this rate, he may actually vomit.

"Cas?"

Castiel starts. "Yes, Dean?"

"I'm gonna get you out of here," he swears, his handcuffs clinking. "I know it looks bad right now, but I'm an expert on miracle getaways. You're getting out of here, capiche?"

Despite the reality of the situation, he finds himself nodding. "Yeah, I capiche."

A series of footsteps approach the door, echoing off the walls. The door swings open with an ominous squeak to reveal Meg and a different set of threatening men. She saunters up to her two prisoners, offers a predatory smile at Castiel, then rounds on Dean. "My contractor wants to have a little chat, Dean-o."

Dean snorts derisively. " _'Contractor'?_ You mean the big bossman Crowley, right? Who'd have thought you'd have to curtsey for a pompous bag of dicks like that?"

In his peripheries, Castiel watches Meg grab Dean by the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. Castiel finds himself fighting against his restraints, gritting his teeth against the pain in his wrists. These people wanted _him_ ; Dean shouldn't have anything to do with this.

Meg sneers, "Always jumping to conclusions, aren't you? Crowley and I have a mutually beneficial partnership."

"Sounds kinky."

"To you, maybe." She releases him, taking a few steps back. "For me, it's about survival. This is the only way I'm getting out of this war alive."

War? What _war?_

"Now put a lid on it. I _will_ gag you if you don't shut it," she growls.

"Where are you taking him?" Castiel demands. Dean's being manhandled by Meg's cronies, his arms pinned behind him, held in place by meaty hands.

"Aw, sweetie," Meg coos, crouching down so they're at eye level. "I think you should be a little more concerned for yourself, not this cheap lay."

"For starters, I wouldn't call myself cheap," Dean says, smiling coldly. "And secondly, maybe you demons would understand compassion a little more if you weren't, y'know, heartless monsters walking around in human meatsuits."

Meg straightens, returning his smile. "I'm serious about that gag, pretty boy. Now let's go."

Castiel watches them leave, struggling against his handcuffs with renewed vigour. He doesn't want to be left alone, not in this huge dark room with a number of demons hanging just outside the door. Just before he's dragged out of sight, Dean turns back to him, gives him a solemn look, one that says _I'll come back for you_ , and then he's gone.

Who knows what's going to happen to Dean? Castiel doesn't want to think about it but he's alone with his thoughts now. His fears catch up with him, and he sits there wondering whether either of them are leaving here alive. If they don't intend to kill him or Dean, what will become of them? Will they stay locked up in this room for days? Weeks? Months? Are they going to be fed? Will they be stuck in these uncomfortable chairs, deprived of sleep and sustenance, withering away?

"Damn it," Castiel whispers, his head falling forward. If he _is_ an angel, what does that mean? He certainly can't feel any wings wedged into his shoulder blades. He must have powers, right? He can mess around with lightbulbs but there must be other things he can do. An angel should be able to break through handcuffs, surely.

He pulls and tugs, trying to slip his hands through the cuffs. Castiel struggles for who knows how long, but by the end of it, his wrists are stinging and raw. He's getting nowhere. He's probably bleeding. Should angels bleed? Surely not. They're immortal, aren't they? Why the hell do these demons want a powerless angel?

Grunting in frustration, Castiel throws himself forward, the chair scraping a few inches along the ground. He tosses his body weight back, then to the side, over and over again until his shoulder crashes against the cold concrete floor. The pain that courses through his shoulder is sharp, and he clenches his jaw to keep from crying out.

Castiel lies on the ground, panting and in pain. Great, he's on the floor. What now?

He turns in towards the ground, his face scrunching up. _No_ , he tells himself, _Don't cry_. Dean's in trouble while Castiel's lying on the floor feeling sorry for himself. This is unacceptable. Angels are supposed to be strong and fierce, aren't they? _Warriors of Heaven_ , Meg said. Castiel certainly doesn't feel like a warrior right now.

Outside, there are more footsteps. Excellent. They're going to find him on the floor, pick him back up, laugh at him (probably) and then Castiel will be back to square one. Infuriated, Castiel fights his handcuffs with increasing desperation. It smarts like hell, but what else can he do? If he doesn't fight, he and Dean will never get out of here.

The longer he struggles, however, the more he starts to feel defeated. At this point, an honest-to-God miracle has to happen.

Sighing, Castiel strains his neck to look to the door; the one source of light in this cavernous room. He blinks slowly, and then very nearly screams when a man's head is violently thrust against the glass pane.

Cracks splinter along the glass. The man cries out, and then his head snaps back. Castiel watches as an orange-yellow light glows beneath the man's skin. He quickly realises that it's the man's _skeleton_ that's flashing beneath his flesh.

A few seconds later, the man's head disappears from view, his body collapsing. Castiel's heart pounds, more afraid than he thinks he's ever been in his life.

The door slams open, the top set of hinges bursting completely off the doorway. Castiel thought that those other demons were big but this man is _gigantic_. It's too dark to make out the man's features, but that's definitely a knife dangling from his right hand.

The man spots Castiel on the floor and approaches him in a few huge strides, immediately crouching to his knees once he reaches him. Castiel's too terrified to breathe.

"Hey, you okay?" the man says, leaning over him. Castiel curls away from him, but the man smiles, something that’s worn out but friendly. A gentle hand lands on his arm. "Don't worry, I'm here to help you."

"Who are you?" Castiel asks, too stunned to ask anything else.

"My name's Sam," he says. The name sounds familiar, but Castiel's head feels strangely fuzzy right now. "I'm the rescue party. What's your name? Why did they bring you here?"

"I'm..." He almost says 'Cas' but changes his mind. "I'm Castiel."

"Castiel," Sam exhales. "So you're an angel, right?"

"Apparently so," he says, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is all news to me as of this morning."

"Jesus." A thin piece of metal is procured from Sam's pocket. He gently turns him over, wincing when Castiel grunts in pain. "Did they hurt you?"

"I did that to myself," he replies, feeling foolish. "I was panicking, I had to get away, I had to―" Wait a minute. Dean. _Dean_. "My friend, Dean, he's―he was taken away by a demon named Meg."

"You know Dean?" Sam says sharply. With a soft click, the handcuffs loosen around Castiel's wrists. "Where'd they take him?"

"Yes, I know him." His shoulders sag forward with relief. Without the pain to distract him, he finally links the dots together. "Wait a minute, you know Dean, too. You're _Sam._ Dean's brother, right?"

Sam frowns in confusion. "Er, yeah. I am."

"Dean mentioned you," Castiel explains quickly. "But as for where they took him, I don't know. Meg said something about a contractor."

"Crowley?" At Castiel's nod, Sam curses. He makes fast work of the ropes tied around Castiel's ankles. "Crowley's bad news. Once I free you, I'll show you the way out. You run as far away from here as you can and stay hidden, alright? My brother and I will come find you once we've cleared this place out."

Castiel nods, opens his mouth to reply, but then he notices the shadowed figure creeping closer to Sam. "Sam! Watch out!"

With incredibly fast reflexes, Sam gets to his feet and spins around, but the demon charges at Sam, throwing him off balance. The knife that he'd been wielding clatters to the ground beside Castiel's knees, too far away for Sam to reach.

Frozen, Castiel watches in horror as Sam and the demon wrestle with one another. The demon lands a serious punch to Sam's stomach, but Sam throws a leg out to topple the man to the floor. Unfortunately, the demon takes Sam down with him, and they fight for control for a solid ten seconds before Castiel's brain catches up with him again.

His arms are free, lying useless in front of him, and there's a weapon within his reach. His ankles are half-untied so he reaches down and keeps working the ropes loose. His hands are trembling, regular blood flow having not yet returned. Frustrated and desperate, he snatches up the knife and manages to cut himself free.

Once upright, knife in hand, he barely has time to think. Sam's on his back, the demon pinning him down. He's got his hands wrapped around Sam's throat, cheeks stretched in a wide grin. Castiel tightens his grip on the blade, and then he charges forward, sticking the knife in the centre of the demon's shoulder blades.

The demon releases a truly awful scream, his entire body lighting up to reveal his skeleton, just like the other demon. After a few flashes of light, his skin returns to normal, and then his body crumples on top of Sam, a dead weight. Upon closer inspection, Castiel realises that it’s the man that had waited outside the library a few days ago. He’s wearing the same leather jacket as he did that day ― the one that reminded him of Dean.

Heaving, Sam shoves the corpse to the floor. Castiel stares at the body, contemplating the fact that he just killed someone, and he feels strangely okay about it.

"Thanks, man."

"You're welcome," Castiel huffs, glancing at the door. "More of them will be here soon."

Nodding, Sam takes back the knife and leads the way.

They discover Dean at the end of several winding hallways, having to slay the handful of demons that come their way. He and Sam are a decent team, all things considered, but luck is most definitely on their side today.

Dean's slumped in a similar chair to the ones he and Castiel had been tied up in. Castiel's throat tightens when he sees the myriad of cuts across his cheeks and chest, his shirt torn to expose more skin. On the other side of the room is Meg, lounging against the wall, who raises an amused eyebrow when he and Sam arrive. Leaning over Dean, meanwhile, is a portly man with a slick black suit, his hair dark and slightly balding.

The man turns on his heel, giving Castiel and Sam a once over. Immediately, Castiel's skin prickles ― it's like he can _feel_ the darkness rolling off his shoulders, filling up the room and restricting his ability to breathe.

"Well, well," the man says, eyes glinting. "The cavalry's here."

"Crowley," Sam spits, raising the knife in front of him. "Get the hell away from my brother!"

At Sam's voice, Dean's eyes crack open to slits. He looks beyond exhausted, but the sight of Sam brings a small, triumphant grin to his cheeks. When he and Castiel's eyes lock, Dean even manages to wink at him. They're going to be okay.

"Your brother is one of the most stubborn men I've ever had the pleasure of torturing," Crowley drawls, his voice lilting with a thick British accent. He paces a half-circle around the room, hands knitted together behind his back. "I'll have to keep that in mind the next time my goons―" (he glances in Meg's direction, smirking. Meg rolls her eyes in disgust) "―have a Winchester fall into their lap. I'll stick a blade in their throat and be done with it then and there."

In his peripheries, Sam's taking a couple of menacing steps forward. "You've got ten seconds to clear out of here, or I'm jamming this thing through your skull."

Crowley hums. "You dish out threats like hot potatoes, but you're all talk. We've danced along to this same old song before ― you can't kill me with that itty bitty blade of yours. The King of Hell's made of stronger stuff." Crowley turns his sights to Castiel. "And aside from that _toy_ in your hands, you've got an angel over here who functions better as a paper weight than as a soldier."

Castiel bristles at that. He squares his shoulders, clenching his hands. "Step away from Dean," he commands, voice a low growl.

Crowley lifts a brow at that. "Ooh, so scary." He smirks. "Love it when you get all tough."

"Crowley!" Sam barks, moving closer. To Castiel's surprise, Crowley takes a few steps back. Meg, who's remained silent throughout this exchange, kicks off the wall and marches over to Crowley, stepping behind him. "Clear out _now_."

"The moose has always been the bossy one," Crowley says to Castiel as if they're having a chat over coffee and cake. Then he lifts his chin, staring at them through narrowed eyes. "But I know better than to mess with the Winchesters duos. I know my history, and I've been taught better than that." He spares a disappointed look at Dean, then stares directly at Castiel, unblinking. He raises a hand. "Toodle-loo, boys."

With a snap of his fingers, both Crowley and Meg are gone.


	5. Part V

Once outside, Castiel, Dean and Sam keep to the side streets. Dean's wounds are shallow but they're bloody and frightening to look at, not to mention both Castiel and Sam have their fair share of blood splatter on their hands and clothes. Best to keep out of sight from the ordinary people. Castiel used to be one of them.

Castiel releases a shaky exhale. Against all odds, they're alive. He can hardly believe it.

Sam half-carries Dean to a silver car that looks significantly more eco-friendly than Dean's. Instead of opening the door, Sam uses the side of the car to prop him up, then starts checking out his injuries, turning Dean's head from side to side.

"They're not too deep," Dean rasps, batting Sam's hands away. "Just give me something to clean this blood off."

"Castiel?" Sam turns to him, hopeful. "Can you heal him?"

Castiel blinks. "Heal him? What do you mean? How?"

"During a hunt in Wisconsin, we rescued another angel, and she healed a nasty bite mark I had on my shoulder," Sam explains.

 _What?_ Bite mark? Do demons bite people? Or this some other hellspawn that Castiel doesn't know about yet?

"They just―" Sam holds up two fingers, "tapped me on the forehead and _instantly_ my injuries were healed up."

Castiel takes a step closer, uncertain. "If it's possible, I've never done it before." Castiel has so many doubts right now. "I can try?"

"Thank you," Sam says, smiling. "Thank you, yeah."

Castiel approaches Dean carefully, whose face is sickly pale. He's not leaning quite so heavily on the car, however, so maybe that's a good sign. "Dean, I―I don't know if this will work."

"Give it a go, man," Dean says, giving him a half-smile. "Can't hurt."

Taking a deep breath, Castiel reaches out to press two fingers to Dean's sticky forehead. Nothing happens, so Castiel frowns, concentrating, trying to imagine that Dean's wounds are stitching themselves back together. After about ten seconds of nothing, however, Castiel sighs dejectedly. So does Sam, quietly.

"I'm sorry," Castiel murmurs, taking a step back. "I really am useless."

"You're not, Cas. Don't worry about it," Dean tells him, waving a hand carelessly. "Worth trying. Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam says, popping the boot. He, at least, sounds disappointed.

He procures a cloth, a bottle of cheap whiskey, and a clear jar of something that looks like water, only it has a string of rosary floating inside. Dean takes all three, giving the bourbon to Castiel. 

"Hold that for a sec."

He twists open the jar and pours water over the cloth, then starts wiping at his face with rough movements. Once most of the blood's off, he hands the jar to Castiel and switches it out for the bourbon. 

"That's holy water," Dean says, gesturing at the jar. He drizzles alcohol onto the cloth and starts dabbing at his cuts, wincing in discomfort. "Just take some regular tap water and store rosary beads in it. Bam, instant demon acid. Still one hundred percent drinkable for us non-demon folk."

"Okay," Castiel says, staring curiously at the jar.

"Your next weapon is salt," Dean says, tugging back his sleeve to reveal a particularly nasty laceration across his forearm. "When you get home, salt the windows, the doors, anywhere that's a point of entry. That'll keep the demons out."

Once finished, he places the bottle, the jar and the cloth on the car seat through the rolled down window. He tugs his collar to the side, revealing a pentacle tattoo that Castiel vaguely remembers from their shower together.

"This is a protective symbol. Get this inked on your skin, and that'll keep them from possessing you." Possession is a wholly new, terrifying concept to Castiel, but he nods. "And there's a similar symbol you can draw on the floor to trap any demons that walk inside the lines. It's called a devil's trap."

He releases his collar, straightening up. "I'll sketch up the symbol for you. You can hide them under doormats, rugs, wherever. Just don't let the neighbours see or they'll think you're crazy."

Castiel frowns at Dean. Dean seems to be working under the assumption that Castiel will continue living at his apartment. "Dean, I have no intention of staying here."

Dean blinks. "What?"

In his peripheries, Castiel sees Sam close the boot and turn around, offering them some privacy.

"I _can't_ stay here," Castiel clarifies. "They've found me once and they'll surely find me again. I can protect my home but I would still need to leave the house from time to time. I have a job, after all. And..." Castiel shrugs helplessly. "I'm vulnerable here. I can't stay."

A trouble expression descends upon Dean's features. "You shouldn't have to leave your home."

Castiel shakes his head. "It's not my home. Not really."

He's had a reasonable sense of attachment to the shabby apartment block and it's lukewarm showers over the past couple of years. All in all, however, he's not sure if he's ever really considered it home. Honestly, he's not sure if he's ever felt at home.

Dean turns away. "You have to leave because of me."

Castiel tilts his head to the side, puzzled. "Because of you?"

"You remember what Meg said? She found you because of me." Dean curses, fists clenching. "None of this would have happened if I hadn't have gotten involved with you. Goddamnit." He meets Castiel's eyes, his expression hard. "I just. I should have _known_ , but when we met, I just―there was something that..."

He doesn't finish, his lips forming a thin line. Castiel is silent for a beat.

"I saw something in you, too," Castiel says. An unidentifiable emotion passes across Dean's face. "I _still_ see something in you. I like you quite a lot, despite this mess." Castiel smiles gently, cheeks warm. "We became involved not just because of you, Dean."

"Yeah, but I knew demons were in the area. Even if you hadn't turned out to be a freaking angel, that still puts you at risk. Everyone I get involved with, they just..."

Castiel sighs. "Dean, stop." He reaches out with both hands, resting them on Dean's shoulders. "If you had have known my full name from the start, then things would have played out differently. We are both to blame for this."

Castiel spares a glance at Sam, who's pointedly walked away from the car, his back turned to them. Then, Castiel runs his knuckles against an uninjured area of Dean's cheek. "I don't regret what happened here."

Dean looks at him in disbelief. "You could have been killed. You could have lived out your life in peace, but because you met _me_ , those demons are gonna have their sights set on you for as long as they live. As long as _you_ live."

"I know," Castiel says, tracing a thumb across Dean's bottom lip, staring at his mouth with growing need. He frowns, then drops his arm to his side. "But I would rather have met you and learned the truth than to live out my days in ignorance. Better I know now than be unwittingly kidnapped later on."

He and Dean fall silent, gazing at one another. Dean glances between Castiel's lips to his eyes. "Cas...can I kiss you?"

“Are you sure you want to?” Castiel looks down. “I mean, you did say that angels have certain...abilities. What if I’ve accidentally, tricked you into kissing me?”

"Dude, angels aren't like sirens," Dean snorts. "Believe me, those things are rife with consent issues. Angels? Nah. You’ve just got some killer natural talent, man.”

A hand comes to rest on Castiel's hip, pulling him closer. Castiel's pulse spikes. "Are you sure?”

Dean stares at him, eyes softening. "I’m positive, Cas. I wouldn’t lie to you about something like this." A smirk twitches across Dean's mouth. "Don't you worry. Those lips of yours didn't seduce me into your pants, Cas. That was all me."

Castiel flushes. Admittedly, however, he's relieved to hear that. It’s nice to know that Dean likes Castiel for him, not because of some strange angel aura.

One moment, he's opening his mouth to say something ― a defensive retort, perhaps, but it's not important ― and then Dean's closing the gap between them, the one that had been shrinking steadily with each passing second. Their mouths meet and there's no heat, just relief; a little we survived victory at the end of a truly horrific day.

His entire body seems to relax all at once, and Castiel thinks that if he does have wings, they'd be unfurling right now, extending up towards the sky.

The spell of the moment is broken with a pointed cough. Castiel and Dean break apart to look at Sam, who's come back over to the car, an amused smirk on his face. He doesn't comment on their entangled bodies, instead saying, "Dean, we gotta get going."

"Why?" Dean says, sounding distinctly like a whining child. "Right now?"

"Yeah, Bobby called. Says he found another angel killing down in Pontiac. Looks like Crowley and Meg have cleared out of here for the time being, so..." Sam looks to Castiel, who's still pressed up against Dean, arms looped around his neck. "He's our, uh, boss. Or crazy uncle, you know, depending on the day."

Dean exhales against him, pressing his forehead against Castiel's shoulder. Sam shrugs helplessly before walking around to the driver's side and slipping inside.

"My car's at your place," Dean mumbles into Castiel's shirt. "We'll give you a lift home."

"Okay." Castiel pats the back of Dean's head. His hair's wonderfully soft. He’ll miss it.

The drive to Castiel's old apartment block is unfairly quick, all three of them sitting quietly the whole way there. Fatigue is settling deep into Castiel's bones now. His body aches, especially his wrists, although the stinging has faded considerably since the warehouse. To think that Castiel had been tied up in a warehouse an hour ago. It's so preposterous it's almost laughable.

Dean gets out of the car the moment they pull up. Castiel sits for a moment, watching Sam drum his fingers along the steering wheel.

"Thank you, Sam," Castiel says. Sam turns around, surprised. "If not for you, I wouldn't be here. I'm indebted to you."

Sam waves him off, just like that. "It's okay, Cas. Don't worry about it."

Castiel nods. He can't fathom how these Winchester men can shrug off things like this. The fact that Sam had risked his life to save them both seems inconsequential to him. It's completely ridiculous, but Castiel accepts Sam's blasé attitude and exits the car.

Dean's fishing out his keys, unlocking the doors, not looking at Castiel. "So, uh, I gave you my number, but I'm thinking it might be best if you give me yours as well. Y'know, so I can check in. Make sure you're okay."

"I'll text it to you."

"Cool," Dean says, finally facing him. Unhappiness is written in every pore of his skin. "Keep me posted, yeah?"

"I will," Castiel says, closing in on Dean.

They kiss again, and this time there's a touch of desperation. Castiel doesn't want to be left alone again, not when the world seems bigger than ever before. Dean's so warm; his arms a protective wall against all those dark things he doesn't know or understand.

Eventually, Dean pulls away. Castiel opens his eyes slowly, then blinks a few times to double check that he's seeing what he thinks he's seeing. "Dean, your injuries..."

Confused, Dean touches his face. Every single one of his cuts are gone - even the last traces of blood have vanished completely. Dean glances at his reflection in the windows, stunned. "Cas, you healed me."

Castiel searches for a response. "I...I suppose I did?"

Dean laughs, delighted, running fingers over his smooth skin. "How 'bout that? Looks like you're the real deal after all."

It's not quite enough to convince him completely, but Castiel finds himself smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.

He wants to go with them, but he's not sure if that's appropriate. Besides, he has unfinished business here. He can't leave without tying up all loose ends.

When the time comes, watching Dean and Sam leave is more painful than he was expecting. Both cars slip out of the visitor's parking lot and onto the streets, Castiel left in the driveway. He waves until they've disappeared from view.

A pit opens up inside him, a dizzying mixture of hunger and raw emotion. His arms curl around his stomach, and he stands there watching the horizon for a long, long time.

When he finds the strength to move, his ascent to his apartment is made at a snail-like pace. His hands tremble when he unlocks the door, reminiscent of last night's ―  _last night's!_ ― events. Once inside, Castiel takes a moment to assess the room: the folded out couch; the sheets pooled on the tiled floor; the unclean dishes from two nights ago; his clothes scattered around the apartment. He finds himself oddly detached from it all.

Despite his exhaustion, he doesn't rest. Not yet, anyway. There's too much to think about; too many options to consider.

He nibbles at his thumbnail, pensive.

There's a notebook on his coffee table, half-filled with lists, character profiles and weekly budgets. Castiel flips the book open and tears out a sheet of paper. He locates a pen in his empty fruit bowl and makes himself comfortable at the edge of the mattress. He pops off the lid with his teeth and then writes up a title:

_Castiel's All-American Road Trip_

_Potential Destinations:_

\---

**3 WEEKS LATER**

The shower switches between warm and cold, eliciting goosebumps along Castiel's skin. This shower's always had its good days and bad, but today is the last day he'll see the insides of these glass walls. Truthfully, he's glad to finally be rid of it.

He shuts off the taps and steps on to the tiles, approaching the foggy mirror. The bathroom's always had appalling ventilation. He doesn't have the patience to let it de-mist on its own, so he smears his palm across it, finding his reflection.

Castiel looks tired. He can see it in the bags in his eyes, the slump in his shoulders. He traces a finger over the ink on his chest, the protective tattoo he'd gotten a few weeks ago. It doesn't sting anymore so Castiel finds himself touching it regularly. A reassurance that it's there, that he's safe.

The salt lines along the doors and windows have been inspected and maintained every time Castiel thinks of it. A devil's trap has been spray-painted into the floor beneath the rug in the entrance way, and Castiel double checks that it remains unbroken every time he leaves and returns to his apartment. So far, no demons or other nasty creatures have darkened his doorstep. He's not so foolish as to think that he's slipped under the radar, though.

Castiel pads out into his lounge room, towel wrapped around his waist. His apartment's mostly empty now, save for the furniture that had come with it. Most of his personal effects have been either packed up or binned. His car ― the gas-guzzler he hasn't properly driven in two years now ― has maybe three bags in it, mostly full of clothes or books.

He'd come to realise, as he'd been cleaning up, that he never really had much here. He supposes that he's not leaving much behind then, either.

His resignation letter is sitting on the coffee table, printed and signed as of last night. He may be just a casual worker but handing in a letter on the day you quit doesn't exactly leave a great lasting impression. Then again, Castiel's decided that, quite simply, he does not give a shit. Metatron was never going to be his go-to reference, so as far as he's concerned, this resignation is his final _fuck you_ that he's never been able to verbalise. A resignation letter is a formality that his boss doesn't deserve as far as he's concerned.

Last night he'd taken care to leave out a change of clothes and essential toiletries. Overall he's relieved to be leaving this city, but he knew that today would still be difficult. He has his reservations, definitely, because he's carved out a routine here; familiarity is comforting at the end of the day. Stepping out into the great unknown is a terrifying concept, especially when he has to leave behind his apartment. He's dropping off the keys to his landlord today ― this place may be a bit of a dump, but it has been his haven for a little while now. Not a home, but security, at least.

Castiel keeps his mind carefully blank, dressing quickly and throwing his remaining possessions into a small backpack. He sweeps the apartment one last time: the fridge is cleared out, the cabinets are empty, and for the most part, the place is clean. The rug is large enough to conceal the Devil's Trap quite nicely, and he prays that his landlord won't discover it until after he gets his bond back. He would have liked to have removed it before he left but he doesn't have time this morning and he was too paranoid to get rid of it last night. If there was a time for the demons to come after him, it's the night he's about to leave.

He heaves the backpack on to his shoulders, his trenchcoat tucked under his arm. In the doorway, he glances back ― looks around the room, breathes in that familiar dusty scent that only his apartment carries ― then shuts the door behind him. He exhales, then starts walking.

The drive over to the library is delayed a couple of times. Firstly, he pulls over at the corner of Bright and Clay, giving Theo one last pat.

"Goodbye, my friend," Castiel murmurs, rubbing both sides of Theo's large, fuzzy head. "You've always been kind to me. I will miss you."

Theo licks his fingers, watching him with wide, sad eyes. Theo knows. Castiel's not sure how they do, but animals have incredible intuition. Maybe one day, once all this craziness blows over, Castiel will be able to have a dog of his own. Or a cat, maybe. He's not picky. Animals have always been easier to deal with than people.

Next, he stops at Othello's, too starved of caffeine to put it off any longer. Coffee will make it easier to deal with Metatron, anyway.

His favourite barista is there, the kind red-head with the nice smile. He never knew her name; she didn't wear a name badge and he was too shy to ask. He gets his coffee to go and tells her _"Thank you"_ , from the bottom of his heart.

She smiles politely. "See you next time!" she replies. His smile turns bitter.

It's early, so the library's still closed when he finally arrives. The lights are on, however, and he can see Metatron hovering around the front counter, browsing through some sort of paperwork. With a deep breath, Castiel picks up his letter from the passenger seat and steps out of the car.

The double doors are already unlocked, sliding open automatically as Castiel marches inside. Metatron glances up, immediately frowning when he sees him. "Castiel, I didn't roster you on today."

"I know," Castiel says, cradling the letter to his chest. "I needed to talk to you about something important."

"Alright," Metatron says, stepping out from behind the counter. "I'm all ears."

"I'm quitting," Castiel says, not bothering to beat around the bush. He offers the letter to Metatron, who accepts it with a quizzical frown. "Something has...something has come up. I need to leave town."

"And you're not coming back?" Metatron says, eyes focused on the letter. "You could just ask for leave, if you want. I know I can be a little hard on you at times, but you're a decent worker. You deserve a few weeks off, if that's what you want. I wouldn't be able to pay you, of course, but―"

"I'm not returning," Castiel cuts in, lifting his chin. "I'm sorry I did not tell you sooner. Things have been a bit...chaotic, recently."

"You can't just up and leave, Castiel!" Metatron protests, which is strange. Castiel wasn't expecting this. "You have to give notice!"

"I'm not on a contract," Castiel reminds him. "Technically, I don't have to give _any_ notice." _This is just a courtesy_ , he doesn't add.

Metatron's frown deepens, his face shifting from confused to agitated. "Castiel, I thought you were better than this―"

"I'm not," Castiel interrupts again. "I'm really not. I apologise for that." He takes a step back, turning towards the double doors. "I have to go. Thank you, and I'm sorry."

The doors swing open as he takes his leave. His shoulders are beginning to rise, the burden that's been hanging heavily on them for weeks ― longer, really ― finally dissipating.

Just when he thinks he's free, however, the doors slam closed, nearly catching on his nose in the process. Castiel jumps back in alarm. What on earth―?

"You're not going anywhere, Castiel." He spins on his feel, meeting Metatron's gaze. There's a mean twist in his mouth, something dangerous glinting in his eyes. "You're staying right here."

"What are you―?" Castiel blinks, shakes himself. He turns back to the doors, fitting his fingers between them and pulling as hard as he can. They won't budge.

"There's no point," Metatron says, voice lilting with delight. "I'm not letting you out."

He struggles with the doors for a moment longer, even though his efforts are futile. He huffs, his heart rate rocketing up. Great. He always knew his boss was an asshole, but…

Castiel faces him, glaring. "You're a demon, I take it?"

Metatron chuckles, shaking his head. "Interesting guess, but no. Although it intrigues me that you know of their existence." Metatron paces a half-circle around him, hands folded behind his back. His lips are tugged into a smug smile. "Had a close encounter, have we?"

"Something like that," Castiel admits, squaring his shoulders, widening his stance. He might have to fight his way out. "But if you're not one of them, then what are you?"

Metatron's smirk widens. "Why, I'm like you, Castiel!" He spreads out his arms, palms raised to the ceiling. "We're cut from the same celestial cloth."

"An angel, then," Castiel says, clenching his hands into fists. His thoughts dive back into his Christian upbringing, trying to recount what he'd learned about angels. "You're a scribe, are you?"

Metatron barks a laugh. "Not a scribe, Castiel. The Scribe." He stands up tall, looking pleased with himself. "The Scribe of God. I met him, you know. The big man upstairs."

Metatron's gloating is too much for him to handle. With an eye roll, Castiel cuts to the chase.  "That's wonderful, but what do you want with me?"

"Well, I thought that would be obvious," Metatron says, shrugging. "Two angels have been united at last after a long, dull few decades after The Fall. Demons and hunters are capturing or killing us." He cocks his head to the side, staring unblinkingly. "If we want to survive, we should band together. Safety in numbers and all that."

"If you're on my side, why would you need to trap me here?" Castiel takes a step forward, anger rising. The lights begin to blink off and on. "If you're on my side, why didn't you approach me about this sooner? Instead, you let me work for you. You watched me, hovered around me at every opportunity."

"You wouldn't have believed me."

"You could have proved it!" Castiel growls. There's a strange itch growing in Castiel's forearm, but he ignores it, staring Metatron down.  "You've trapped me here by controlling these doors. I'm sure you can do other things, too."

Metatron shrugs again, which just fuels Castiel's fury.

"It's only now that you're telling me all this because I want to leave. If you were concerned about the demons capturing us, you would have warned me. You would have said _something_." Castiel gets up in Metatron's face, bearing down at him. "You just want to control me."

"Alright." Metatron steps back. He moves leisurely, pacing slow circles around him. "Fair enough. Then hear me out," he says, facing Castiel again.

"Hear _what_ out?"

"I'm rallying an army. I'm the Scribe, so I'm not _really_ designed for battle. What I am designed for, on the other hand, is _leading_ ," he says, that smug grin stretching across his face. "I've got a few peons already, but I could use all the help I can get. You, Castiel, were once the leader of a garrison," he informs him, smiling wide. "Do you remember?"

"No, I don't."

"Then perhaps I can help you remember!" he says, beaming. "Don't you want to know about your great, epic story?"

"I will learn in my own time," Castiel tells him firmly.

The itch in his arm is getting worse. He presses his palm to it, and even through his coat, he can feel his skin growing hotter and hotter.

Metatron shrugs, turning away. "Maybe you won't. Not every angel remembers their past. Most do, but there are definitely some exceptions. But I've got a friend of a friend who's an expert at, shall we say, _reconstructing_ the mind." He tilts his head. "Do you remember someone named Naomi, Castiel?"

He doesn't know why, but his insides turn cold. Fear, thick and suffocating, claws its way up Castiel's throat. It's difficult to breathe. All of his panic receptors are in overload, as if there's a lion in the library with them, poised and ready to sink its teeth into Castiel's throat.

He recognises that name, though he doesn't know why. Something at the back of his mind tries to creep forward: a memory, perched on the edge of a precipice, close to tumbling over the other side. Castiel clenches his jaw, forcing it back.

His arm, once a nagging itch, burns fiercely. It doesn't hurt, per se, but it's too intense to ignore any longer. As if on auto-pilot, Castiel extends his arm, fingers curled and ready, and his forearm tingles strangely.

Next minute, something cool and solid is sliding down his sleeve. He catches it easily, fingers closing around an oddly familiar handle.

Castiel looks down, amazed by what he sees: a blade, longer than a kitchen knife, pointed and needle-like. Whatever the weapon's made out of, it certainly isn't something he recognises. It's pearly white and glowing softly. Despite his warm, sweaty palms, the weapon remains cool against his skin.

When he meets Metatron's stare, he doesn't expect to see fear in his eyes. Sure, that arrogant sneer is still spread across his face, but it doesn't reach his gaze.

"An angel blade?" Metatron says, taking a small step back. "So there are some things you remember how to do."

"Not really." Castiel raises the blade in front of him, preparing to fight. "This was a happy accident."

He steps forward and Metatron retreats further. Castiel continues to advance on him, the angel blade pointed at Metatron's chest.

Metatron backs up until he's trapped between a wall and two bookcases. Castiel closes in, the tip of his blade hovering a mere inch from his torso. There's rage reflected in Metatron's face now, his hands balled into indignant fists.

"Feeling brave now, I take it?" Metatron says, feigning cockiness. "Do you even know how to use that thing?"

In the blink of an eye, Castiel adjusts his hold on the blade and presses it against Metatron's throat. He stares hard, lips forming a thin line. "Do not goad me, Metatron."

"Castiel, I really think we've gotten off on the wrong foot here―"

"No, that's enough," Castiel growls. He pushes down, and Metatron makes a gagging sound. "Release me, and you can walk away unscathed. If not, I will kill you."

Metatron inches back as far as he can, enough so that he can sigh dramatically. "You warriors are such brutes. All action and no thought for the consequences." He narrows his eyes. "You will regret this, Castiel. Last chance."

"I have made my choice." Castiel lifts his chin, defiant. "What's yours?"

For a minute, neither of them move or speak. The clock near the welcome desk ticks loudly in the oppressive silence. Eventually, Metatron's chest deflates like a balloon. The look he gives Castiel is pitying.

"You walk the road of a rebel, Castiel. The same old, lonely road you've walked for millennia." He quirks a brow. "Enjoy it while you can."

The lights dim and brighten, signalling Metatron's departure. Castiel's left standing in the library with nothing but the creaking air conditioner for company. He holds the angel blade in front of him, watching in fascination as it fizzles out of existence. He supposes he'll have to learn how to summon it at will. There isn't really a handbook on how to do something like that, though ― all he's been doing lately is acting on instinct.

He wonders what will happen to the library now that both he and Metatron are gone. Who's going to take care of things around here? Where will the regulars go to now? What will happen to all these books?

Shaking his head, he pushes those thoughts away. There are more important things to consider right now.

Turning on his heel, he marches back outside, listening to the doors close behind him.

He just hopes this place isn't forgotten about.

\---

City traffic is the worst. It's been nothing but slow-going for forty minutes now, and Castiel's not even close to reaching the highway. He exhales through his nose, trying to curb his frustration.

When he comes to a stop at yet another red light, he notices his phone light up on the seat beside him. He snatches it up and checks the message.

_How'd everything go?_

It's from Dean, of course. Smiling wryly, Castiel sends him a reply. _Not as smoothly as I'd hoped, but I'm in the car now._

At the next traffic lights, he checks his phone again. _Where are you?_

_Stuck in traffic. Still in the city._

Dean doesn't reply for a while after that. It's when Castiel's driving through the outskirts of the city that he gets a new question ― _Where are you headed?_

In his notebook, there are numerous towns and cities that he'd written down before embarking on this trip. There's a map stuffed in the glove box and an unopened GPS on the floor by the passenger seat. Realistically, he _should_ know where he's headed.

But, does he have a specific direction in mind at this point in time? No, not really.

Castiel doesn't have a proper plan here, he's just going to get swept up in whichever direction calls to him. Prior to this, he wouldn't have considered himself to be a particularly spontaneous person. How things have changed.

He pulls up at another red light, recognising it as the last one before the highway. He taps out a rhythm against the steering wheel, thoughtful. As the engine idles, he hears the unmistakable whirling of a siren. Seconds later, an ambulance sneaks through the intersection, flashes of red and blue dotting Castiel’s vision.

The siren fades into the distance, the intersection now blanketed in silence. Castiel chews his lip.

 _I don't know yet._ He glances up at the lights, checking for green. Then he types, _Any suggestions?_

Almost immediately, he gets a text back.

_Sam and I are in Illinois for a case. We'll be here for a week at least._

Smiling, Castiel manages to send off a reply before the light turns green.

_Then I guess I'm heading to Illinois._

Once he hits the open road, his field of vision seems to expand, like he's seeing the horizon for the very first time. The road is wide but the sky consumes it, making him feel smaller than he's ever felt before. The sun sits low in the sky, bathing the world in pink and orange.

Slowly, he feels the tightness in his chest release. He winds down the window, letting the wind whip his hair in every direction.

Castiel drives on, refusing to look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed.
> 
> I really appreciate kudos & feedback, so please let me know if you liked it!
> 
> P.S. You can find me on tumblr at [queernatural](http://queernatural.tumblr.com/). Au revoir!


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